A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Four
by BuckeyeBelle
Summary: In the fall of the year, things move on...into the recovery of two children, the escape of another, and a poisoning...
1. Chapter 1

A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Four

By Buckeye Belle and Vivienne Grainger

Chapter 1

(A.N. Transformers belongs to Hasbro and whoever they have allowed the rights to it, which certainly doesn't include me. No money has been made from this fanfic and no copyright infringement is intended. All I own are my OCs.

This story contains religious and spiritual discussion drawn from various religious paths both real and fictional. Those who wish not to be exposed to religions other than their own should turn back now.

This is the sixth story in The Sidhe Chronicles series. Previous stories are "Swords and Jewels," "The Sidhe Chronicles 2: Dark of the Moon," and the first three stories of "A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime." This is a separate AU from the "Come on up for the Rising" verse.

"Normal speech"

::Silent speech (Internal radio or through a bond)::

Scene Break: -Sidhe Chronicles-

Thanks to my beta and co-author, Vivienne Grainger. /A.N)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

_(Leinster, Ireland, 1185)_

_The troubles between England and Ireland began with the violent death of a High King, Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn. Now, the passing of human kings was an all-too-regular event in the lives of the Seelie Court fae. So quickly did human lives pass that, in the days when the Gaels buried their dead in barrows, supplied with grave goods to aid their passage to the next world, upon hearing of the birth of a royal child, Queen Titania would quietly commission the creation of a parting gift for that prince or princess' final journey, less than a century hence._

_The customs of barrows and grave goods, along with so many other things, had passed with the arrival of Christianity to the Emerald Isle. One of the things lost had been the close ties between the Seelie Court and the courts of the Irish kings and queens. Where once Sidhe diplomats and human druids had been advisers in those courts, now the priests whispered in the ears of kings, and the Fae kept to the forests._

_Now, this Muirchertach was the patron of one Diarmait Mac Murchada, king of Leinster. The new High King exiled Diarmait, who appealed to Henry II of England, who sent troops including the powerful Norman Marcher Lord, Richard de Clare. King Henry was encouraged in this endeavor by the first and only English pope, Adrian IV, who wished to consolidate control over the Irish Catholic Church._

_Restored to his throne in 1170, Diarmaid offered the hand of his daughter, Princess Aoife, to Lord Richard, who had been of invaluable assistance to him in his quest to regain his throne, and made his new son-in-law his heir. Now, Henry, fearing the rise of a rival Norman kingdom in Ireland, went to Leinster at the head of an army to assert his control over de Clare. Henry declared his younger son, John, Lord of Ireland, and when John unexpectedly became king, the English claim to Ireland fell directly to the throne._

"Aye, aye, aye," said Martha the Badger's old nurse, "here are your arms and armor, child, such as they be, and may God forgive you for bearing such Sidhe trash."

"Hurry," said her mother. "I cannot be long gone, or your sister will …"

"Yes. I know." Martha pressed her cheek to her mother's, and then to the old woman's wrinkles, and reached for the door.

But at that moment it crashed open, and Martha's sister's suitor lunged for her with sword extended, a half-dozen priests behind him. "Changeling!" he screamed. "Foul wench!"

Martha's mother lunged, intending to take a cut to the hand to save her child, but Hubert de Clancy's blade slipped or was pointed to her breast, and her swift movement to save Martha took her life. DeClancy cursed her, pulling the blade from her body.

Martha screamed, "Mother!" and sent a blast of water at Hubert, who was knocked off his feet by it. "Changeling bitch!" he shouted, struggling to his feet.

Martha paused, crouched in the window of her father's castle, and said flatly, "You and my sister deserve one another, de Clancy, and I wish you what joy you deserve of your union!" She leapt from the window, and in the storm, her water powers made her invisible behind a swirl of snow.

And who can track snow through falling snow?

Diarwen ni Gilthanel might have been able to, but such was not her concern. She knew nothing of Martha the Badger, lately returned to her family of birth, nor of the changeling plucked from Martha's family's bosom, whose loss Martha's sister had chosen to grieve by asking her fiancee to kill the returned changeling.

The politics between Ireland and England were … unclear, at the moment. And the situation involving the powerful Richard deClare, the young princeling John, his tempestuous father Henry, second of that name to sit the English throne, and the king of Leinster (at present, no one could truly be said to be "High King of Ireland") was a soup a-boil with treachery and intrigue.

Spying upon the humans and obtaining the information that Titania, Queen of the Seelie court, needed to unravel this complex web of alliances and betrayals fell to Diarwen ni Gilthanel, one of the Queen's Own. So it came to pass that, early in winter, Diarwen made her careful way through a snow-covered valley on her way between Dublin and Kildare. She was glamoured as a human minstrel boy, easier to pass unnoticed in these times when neither Sidhe nor unaccompanied women commonly took to the roads, especially in winter.

Leaning on her walking stick, Diarwen paused at the top of a hill. She was still half a day's walk from her destination, more if the snow continued to pile up, as it seemed likely to do. She remembered the long, cold winters of her childhood, when much of the continent had still been locked in ice—this day was warm in comparison, but still she looked forward to Lord Kevin's warm hall.

Shouting and the ring of steel on steel sent her to cover in the trees. She was all too aware that the snow would make it impossible to disappear without a trace—it was too deep to hide her trail. But she could not simply pass by the disturbance without first finding out what it was all about. If outlaws had brought some merchant to bay, she could not simply leave him to his fate.

As she drew closer, she felt the shimmer of magic in the air.

Her first glimpse of the altercation was of the green tabard of a knight. Also easily visible against the snow were the black robes of a priest who wielded a cudgel, and the rougher, less colorful clothing of several men-at-arms. Opposing them was a slender maid armed only with a dagger—and magic. She wore a leather jerkin over a gambeson and breeches. The jerkin's minor charms were only marginal protection against the cold, or the weapons of half a dozen grown men.

Her control over the power of water which she commanded was that of a novice, and her aura showed great weariness as well. The battle cry she shouted as she drove back one of the men-at-arms was in Sidhe.

Diarwen let her glamours fall, and the simple walking-stick she carried became her bow. As the man-at-arms raised an axe, she let an arrow fly, pinning his arm to a tree by his sleeve. "Hi, young one, so many you keep to yourself! Have you enough here to share your sport with a bored traveler?"

"Enough that I might spare a few, milady, since ye asked so kindly!"

Diarwen stood her bow against a tree, dropped her bundle, and drew her sword, as the knight, the churchman, and their men looked uncertainly between the weary young maid, and the fully armed, armored, and thoroughly unimpressed Sidhe warrior.

Diarwen stared at the knight over her mithril blade. "Begone or have at ye, rogues!", and called fire to her blade.

The flaming sword decided them that "begone" was the wiser choice, the man-at-arms Diarwen had shot at leaving his sleeve pinned to an oak.

The maid sheathed her dagger and knelt. "Milady, your arrival was most fortuitous. I am called Martha the Badger."

"So named by those who took you as changeling?"

"Aye, Lady."

"I am Diarwen. How did you come to be out here alone?"

"Prince Jaelin ordered me returned to my human parents. My father is lord of a castle near here. My younger sister saw fit to be rid of me, and denounced me to the Church, so that she might inherit in my stead and make a better marriage. My mother helped me to escape, but fell to the blade of my sister's betrothed, and I've led them a chase since. Had you not come along, Milady, I hoped only to fall quickly in battle rather than be taken captive. There were too many for me to overcome alone."

"I see. I know that you are weary, child, but we must be away from here. They will return, and with more men, an I read them right. If we go quickly, the snowfall will hide our trail before morning."

"Where shall we go, Lady Diarwen?"

"I am bound for Kildare. There are those there who will teach to live among humans without attracting the notice of the Church. You must get into the habit of hiding your magic and your skill with a blade, though. When you have rested, I will begin to teach you a few useful glamours."

"Brigit bless you, Milady."

Diarwen cut the girl a walking stick. "Let me lead the way, child. I should like to put as much distance as we can between us and this place before darkness falls, but I fear we shall not reach Lord Kevin's hall before then."

The girl shivered, and not only from the cold. "It is dangerous to be out at night. There are redcaps about."

"Are there now?" Diarwen asked placidly. "It could be dangerous to be a redcap this evening, then. Let me know if you need to stop and rest."

"Aye, Milady."

Whistling a cheerful tune, Diarwen led the way along the snow-covered road. They saw no other travelers, for which she was quite relieved. It would be awkward to answer questions from others that they might meet.

Until she learned the language and customs, Martha would have to stay in hiding. Lord Kevin and his household kept the old ways, and would make room for the girl at their table. The trick would lie in getting her there unnoticed.

Though, for Martha's sake, Diarwen had passed redcaps off as nothing to be concerned about, she kept her eyes and ears open for any sign of them. The creatures were a species of fae, distant kin to the Sidhe. Redcaps were fearsome opponents because dark magic bound them to keep their caps wet with blood at all times or die. Granted, that same magic slowed the drying process, and they could use the blood of game taken in the hunt as well as any other, but they would fight on regardless of the odds against them when needs must because their caps were beginning to dry out. The Unseelie Court used them as shock troops, often throwing them into battle before joining in themselves, so if they were seen, usually their masters were also about—though sometimes they might be permitted to hunt alone.

It was uncommon for the Unseelie to take an interest in a changeling after returning them to the mortal world, but Jaelin Stormfalcon sometimes did in the case of a pretty young girl like Martha, if he thought she might become a damsel who would capture his eye when she had grown a bit.

If that were so, it meant nothing good for Martha.

"Martha, how old are you?"

"Twelve years, Milady."

"Ah. Nearly grown, then."

"I do a full day's work, Milady. I shall earn my keep."

"I meant not to imply that you did not, child."

"Your pardon, Milady."

"I take no offense."

"Milady, where are we bound?"

"To the hall of Lord Kevin Moran and his Lady, Siobhan. They are good and kind folk, and within their walls, they keep to the old religion. You will be safe there, and they will teach you how to manage in this world. You would not be the first returned changeling that they have fostered."

"What can I do to repay-?"

"We ask for nothing. This is not something to be repaid to us, but rather, when you are older and settled, it is something to be passed on. You will know when the time comes."

"Yes, Milady."

Once a look at their back trail convinced Diarwen that the snow had sufficiently covered their tracks, she called a halt and dug into her pack. First, she dug out a warm, fur-trimmed tunic, which fell to Martha's knees. Then she untied her bag of provisions and found ale, hard bread and cheese, and a couple of apples.

Martha spotted a sheltered spot under the snow-covered boughs of an evergreen tree. First checking to make sure a badger hadn't already claimed the space, they crawled underneath to share their dinner out of the weather.

Martha shivered every time the wind howled. "There was nothing like this in the Underhill," she said. "The wind and the snow—I have seen nothing like this before."

Diarwen replied, "On my few journeys into the Underhill, I was always aware of the mass of stone above my head, and of the possibility that the small streams running through the tunnels could turn into raging torrents without warning. Yet that was as familiar to you as these hills and forests are to me. In time, if you give yourself the chance, you will acclimate as I did."

Martha nodded and finished her apple, then burrowed further into the too-large tunic.

Diarwen was tempted to use magic to warm the child, but here, warm would soon mean wet—more dangerous in the long run. They needed to find a dry place to rest, where she would not have to worry about melting the snow.

"We are not too distant from the ruins of St. Jerome's Abbey," Diarwen mused. "We might take shelter for the night there, if you do not fear the undercroft?"

"What is an abbey, and what is an undercroft?"

"An abbey is the dwelling place of a group of Catholic monks or nuns, and an undercroft is a chamber built underneath underneath a church, commonly used as a chapel—and there, the community often buried their dead. St. Jerome's was looted and burned during the fighting a few years back. Each side blamed the other, and those few monks who fled into the forest and survived could not identify their attackers. Vile brigands, though highborn some of them may have been. Most of the buildings were burned to the ground, but the walls of the church were still standing when last I saw it, and though several of the monks were slaughtered there, the undercroft was still covered. I know of no other possible shelter that we will find before nightfall."

"I fear dead monks less than I do the live ones," Martha replied. "Though after what happened earlier today, I would prefer to avoid all of them."

"As indeed you should, until you have a chance to learn how to act around them."

"Why do they hate us so?"

"They fear us. We stand against the order that they wish to create. They want their faith to rule the world, and all who do not convert must die. It is madness. There would be room for all. Their Christ told them to go into all the world and preach the gospel—He did not tell them to murder all who would not listen. Yet, somehow over a thousand years, that is becoming the way of things. I fear it will grow worse, not better, as time goes on."

"What will become of me?"

"Your element is water. It is in your nature to conform to that which you flow over, yet water you remain. That will be your strength—you will learn to live among them, yet Martha the Badger you will still be. You and your children and theirs will keep the old ways alive in secret, until the day comes when this madness ends, and all once again can walk in peace together."

"How long will that take?"

"I am no prophet, child."

"Aye, Milady. I myself will make but one prophecy—if we stay here much longer, night will overtake us before we find that abbey."

Diarwen grinned. "Indeed. Let us be on our way, then."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jaelin Stormfalcon drew upon his command of air and water to mitigate the storm, but it was too late, the trail had already been obscured. "How could that chit of a girl have fought off a knight and four men-at-arms?"

"My Prince, perhaps this explains it," replied his dark-haired companion, indicating a scrap of cloth pinned to a tree by an arrow. He urged his mount over to the tree and yanked out the arrow so that he could study it. "Some Seelie spy, no doubt."

"May I, your highness?"

He let the Queen's Champion take the arrow. She pushed back her sable hood from her face and said, "This is Diarwen's work. I know her fletchings."

"Interfering on behalf of a human wench is precisely the sort of thing that softhearted fool would do," Jaelin snarled, scowling.

What a pity, Morithel thought, that the child could not be denied his wants for even a moment without falling into a pet. He would be no fit leader of the Unseelie, yet lead he must, when came the time. Fortunately, he had centuries yet in which to learn. "We owe her a debt of thanks. Without her interference, you should have lost the girl's entertainment."

"True. Perhaps I shall not kill her right away when we find them."

Morithel said nothing, but she had been Jaelin's swordmaster. She doubted that he would be killing Diarwen ni Gilthanel at all today. The arrogant prince had a lot of growing up to do before he would be a match for her Summer Court counterpart.

"The storm is going stronger, I feel its energy increasing. Where might they take shelter in these lands?"

Morithel thought on that. "A few leagues on, there is a ruined abbey. I can think of nowhere else that they might go. It is a place to start, in any case."

"Very well. Onward then."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The abbey ruins loomed through the falling snow, the dark mass of charred, scattered timbers and cracked stones pierced here and there by a standing chimney or a fragment of a wall, overgrown with weeds and a few saplings. Here and there, gaps in the piles of rubble remained where people had taken away the fallen stones to use somewhere else. Much of it would be scavenged, in time.

On this dark, wintry evening, though, no one was within a league. Diarwen cast about for any sign, magical or mundane, that anyone or anything else had already claimed the place, and found that they had it entirely to themselves, as well as she could tell.

In the distance, a wolf howled, but here, all was so silent that Diarwen could almost hear the snowflakes fall on the ruins.

The abbey's church had fared better than the surrounding smaller buildings, which had been built more of timber than stone. The church had been burnt out, the remains of the roof falling in and filling the center of the building with a jumble of debris.

But in one corner, a narrow stairway, intact, led down to the undercroft.

Diarwen called fire to her sword to light their way. A few stray stones had fallen into the stairwell, and part of the door at the bottom still hung crazily from the hinges. The splintered pieces of the rest lay just inside.

The undercroft contained a small chapel and the tombs of the monks who had lived here for hundreds of years. The latest inhabitants had been spiders, who had spun their webs everywhere. Diarwen burned them out of her way—next spring, a new generation of arachnids would replace them.

Martha the Badger poked about carefully. "Do you think we might dare a fire down here, milady?"

Diarwen righted a brazier. "There may yet be charcoal," she replied.

Martha picked up a piece of the charred door. "Of a plenty, I should think, lying all about us."

"Half charred, or gone completely to ash, yes," Diarwen smiled. "But where there is a brazier, there should be proper charcoal, and I doubt the looters bothered with it. I shall have a look for it." Diarwen removed a small traveling lantern from her pack and checked the oil and the wick, then lit it from her sword. "There, that will be light and a bit of warmth while we look."

Sure enough, there was charcoal. Once it had been kept in a large basket in the storeroom. The looters had tipped it out to see if anything of value had been hidden inside and left it there. They gathered enough for the brazier and got a fire started. Diarwen told Martha, "Get out of those wet things and wrap up in your blanket; no clothes are better than wet clothes. Spread them out to dry as much as they will before morning."

Martha did as she was bidden, while Diarwen took her copper kettle back upstairs to pack it with snow. She set a ward while she was up there.

When she returned to the undercroft, she hung the kettle over the brazier, and soon they had hot water for tea, then a simple porridge sweetened with a handful of dried currants. Hot food was more than welcome, no matter how homely.

Diarwen followed her own advice and stripped to the skin, then dug a chemise out of her pack.

Martha gasped at the sight of her scars. Raised a slave, she had seen scars before—but not the marks left by fifteen thousand years as a warrior.

Diarwen laughed, not unkindly, at her shocked reaction and the flaming cheeks which followed. "I have been one of the Queen's Own for a handful of hundreds of your years, little one. That leaves its evidence."

She spread her clothes out to dry, then sat down to unbraid, brush and rebraid her long hair. By the time she had finished, Martha had settled down to a restless, exhausted sleep as near the brazier as she dared.

Diarwen kept watch with her sword close at hand. Her wards would give them some warning, but would not stop determined redcaps for long.

She charmed the brazier to give forth more of its warmth, bringing the cellar to a temperature that was, if not quite comfortable, not freezing either, then concentrated on drying their clothing. Occasionally, she went above to have a look around and check her wards.

Martha wakened a couple of hours before dawn. She had not had time to get out of her scullery maid habits; in the Underhill her work day had begun while her fae masters were still asleep. She dressed gratefully in dry, warm clothing. On her last trip upstairs, Diarwen had refilled the kettle with snow; Martha hung it over the brazier.

They were getting ready to leave when Diarwen felt one of her wards go down. She drew her sword and led the way up the stairs, unwilling to be trapped in the undercroft.

A redcap met her near the top of the stairs. The result was swift, violent, and terminal. Diarwen ducked an axe swing and stabbed upwards. The stairwell plunged into darkness as her sword momentarily quenched itself in the creature's body. Its dead weight fell on her, trapping her sword, and she could hear more of them in the church above. Biting back a curse, she backstepped, freeing her sword, and clambered over the body. Behind her, she heard Martha's dagger whisper from its sheath.

Diarwen signaled Martha to stay back, then charged the redcaps. There were four of them.

The ring of mithril on iron broke the dawn silence. Diarwen knew her skill could aid her only if she ended the fight quickly—a drawn-out conflict favored the redcaps.

One of them went down quickly, while thanks to her armor she escaped a broadsword's bite with bruises and her life. The third one tried to grab her from behind. She sidestepped, and the two fouled each other, allowing her to step clear. She looked wildly for the fourth one—and saw Martha slit his throat from behind.

In the space of a few seconds, the redcaps had gone from outnumbering their quarry five to two to equal numbers, not odds to a redcap's liking. The survivors looked at each other, then at the Sidhe warrior, and took a more defensive stance. They knew as well as Diarwen did that their best hope was to wear her down. When she slowed, they could bring their much greater strength into play without being spitted.

Martha drew up mana from the snowfield and blasted ice shards in the nearest one's face. Diarwen was quick to take advantage, and then it was two to one in favor of the Sidhe.

The remaining redcap retreated to get the wind at his back and threw a handful of some sort of dust at Diarwen. Instantly her eyes began to water and burn. She pushed the pain to the back of her mind and concentrated on her other senses, locating the redcap by the sound of his hobnail boots on the frozen stone and by the dark slash of hunger that was his aura. She feinted, he brought his blade up to parry, and she drove a hard kick into his midsection.

His sword drew a line of fire down the inside of her knee, but that had been an accident, not a purposeful blow. He went down, and she stabbed him through the throat.

Martha's terrified gasp informed her that the battle was not yet over. Expecting more redcaps, she scrubbed at her streaming eyes to see exactly the last people she would have hoped to meet at a time like this: the Unseelie prince, Jaelin Stormfalcon, and Medb's champion Morithel.

Jaelin strutted into the ruined church, keeping his cloak clear of the redcaps' blood. "Diarwen ni Gilthanel. What an interesting place you've found to spend the night."

Diarwen raised her sword in a mocking salute. "Ah, your highness. Did your mother the Queen allow you to play outside today?"

Jaelin had yet to reach his majority, something the Seelie warrior knew grated at him. He directed at her a smile more of teeth than good nature, and said, "As witty as ever, I see, milady."

"And Lady Morithel—well met, warrior."

The raven-haired warrior brought her own blade to her forehead. "Indeed. This concerns you not; it would be better were you to stand aside."

"I will not do so. The maid Martha the Badger is under my protection. It would be better were you to go home and celebrate the return of her changeling."

"You just cost me five redcaps. Do you truly expect me to let that pass?" Jaelin asked.

Diarwen said, "It were wiser if you did, princeling. You are of sufficient rank that honor will not allow me to disregard your challenge. Think long and hard upon the courses of wisdom and folly, e'er you issue one."

"I have had enough of your disrespect, Seelie wench."

"On the contrary, it is out of respect for your lady mother that I warn you away from this battle. You cannot best me. True, Morithel will avenge you—but have no doubt, you will fall before me. She is Queen's Champion for a reason, and as I am Champion to my own Queen, let her fight in your stead."

Morithel realized immediately what Diarwen's strategy was, and tried to dissuade the headstrong Jaelin, "She speaks truth, your highness. You are not yet ready."

"I will be the judge of that. Stand aside, these wenches are mine."

Morithel did as she was ordered, her dark glare promising Diarwen a terrible retribution if she had to return Jaelin to his mother slung across his saddle. Martha shrank back into the undercroft stairs, certain they were both going to die today.

Diarwen drew fire to her blade to be sure it was cleansed of the redcaps' blood. "Your highness, if you must insist on this duel, then state the insult I have done you."

"You have killed my thralls and stolen my slave. I demand recompense."

"The Seelie court recognizes no claim upon the person of a sentient being. You are due no recompense."

"I will have it in gold, or in your service in their stead: else pay with your life."

Diarwen brought her sword to a ready position. "Come take it, then."

Diarwen was already tired from the clash with the redcaps, and her eyes still watered. The duel was not as one-sided as it might have been. But Jaelin had not yet reached his tenth century, and while he had been learning the sword all his life, his only conflicts had been duels to first blood among the youngsters of the court. This was his first real fight. He didn't know how to use that advantage.

It was by no means the first time Diarwen had started a fight at a disadvantage, and she knew very well how to work around it. After the first two or three passes, Jaelin realized too late what both swordswomen had tried to warn him about. He was fighting a purely defensive battle, while Diarwen stalked him through the ruined church, predator and prey.

It was only a matter of time until Jaelin made a mistake, a little off balance, his guard down slightly. Diarwen's blade caught his through the fancy pommel and sent it spinning out of reach—and a kick dropped him to the cracked, ice-covered flagstones. Instantly her blade was at his throat, the flame threatening to sear his skin.

Diarwen stated coldly, "Yield."

Jaelin swallowed, but said, "I will not yield to a summer-court harlot."

"By your laws, princeling, I have earned captor's right over you; who would that make the harlot? It is your good fortune that my queen forbids any such thing. I would be within my rights to claim your arms and armor, and take you back to the court to hold you for ransom. How long, my lady Morithel, do you think her majesty Queen Medb would allow this stripling to enjoy our hospitality before she decided he had learned his lesson and ransomed him?"

Morithel said, "I know not, my lady Diarwen, that would depend greatly on how vexatious court had been when I returned with word."

"Indeed. And I should be plagued with a royal prisoner for all that time. I shall make you a very generous offer, Prince Jaelin—yield to me, swear upon your honor that you renounce all claim on this girl, and swear as well to let us go in peace. Do that, and we all leave here under conditions of truce. If you fail to do so, you will leave here as my prisoner."

Jaelin looked to Morithel, and found not an ounce of pity in her cold black eyes. The Queen's Champion _would _let the silver-haired warrior take him prisoner and march him, shamed, into the Seelie Court; such was her right as the victor of their duel. Either way, Martha the Badger was Diarwen's, either as spoils or by his granting the returned Changeling her freedom.

He had been checkmated. Spitting the words as though they were made of acid, Jaelin said, "I yield, milady. Upon my honor, I quit my claim upon this girl, and agree to let you both go in peace."

Diarwen stepped back, leaving Morithel to help her student to his feet. Medb would hear of this, and Jaelin was due a difficult time when he returned to the Unseelie Court. She nodded to Morithel, who returned the salute. Then her Unseelie counterpart, with Prince Jaelin, retrieved their horses from the abbey courtyard, and rode away.

Diarwen scooped up a handful of clean snow to soothe her burning eyes. Martha looted the redcaps of what valuables they carried, but took the time to lay them out respectfully and say the words to send their spirits safely to the Lands Beyond.

They went below to gather up their few belongings, and set out again. It was an hour's walk to the border of Lord Kevin's lands, and upon the way they met some of his knights out for a morning's ride.

One of them, Lord Kevin's son Ciaran, courteously dismounted and lifted Martha to ride sidesaddle ahead of him. The two were of an age, so the chivalrous gesture was not easy for the young lordling, but Diarwen noticed how the two looked at one another.

As did the captain of the patrol. He and Diarwen exchanged a smile, then he extended his hand to help her up onto his horse. She managed her sword and bow gracefully as she settled herself behind him, too experienced a rider to need to be held in place.

The rest of their journey was thus a pleasant ride through the snowy fields and forests of Lord Kevin's lands, onward to the completion of Diarwen's mission and the beginning of a new life for Martha the Badger.

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers in Part 1

(present day, Mission City base)

Late September weather is cool in some parts of the North American continent, but in the rocky canyons of the Mission City base, the afternoon temperature was above 100 degrees. The wind blew constantly around the rocks, apparently trying its best to distract the small group sitting in the shelter of Buzzard Rock.

A strong gust showered everyone with sand. Optimus transformed to his alt and positioned himself close to the rock, creating a lee where the others could take shelter from the wind.

Abruptly, the wind turned distinctly cold. Most of the group were sensitive to changes in the ambient energy. The Cybertronians among them scanned for the source of the disturbance that they felt.

Jazz said, "Boss, Ah'm picking up some kind of gate, or bridge, about a mile north."

Optimus alerted the base, then ordered, "Roll out."

That short distance took little time to cover, in spite of the fierce gusts of wind that threatened to sandblast them. Chip Chase and Mikaela Banes were riding with Jazz, while Diarwen and Chip's caregiver Jack Binns rode with Optimus.

The Prime said, "This is not a natural weather phenomenon. According to the data from Nellis, it is too localized for that."

"Temporary gates disrupt everything, but once the gate closes, it will settle itself quickly," Diarwen replied. "Can you tell if this is something created by magic, or could it possibly be a space bridge?"

Optimus scanned, then replied, "I have no way of knowing. It seems the two are quite similar, but weather disturbances are not a common effect of opening a small space bridge."

"Two methods of achieving the same result," she mused.

"I do not sense any unknown spark signatures in the area. That also speaks against a Cybertronian origin."

Jazz said, "Could be cloaked, so don't anyone let your guard down."

"Could be any damn thing," Chip replied. Over the radio, Optimus and his passengers heard the unmistakeable sound of a magazine being loaded into a rifle.

Optimus and Jazz split up, and with a few hundred meters between them, they were able to triangulate the location of the gate. They let their passengers out and transformed, approaching the area carefully, and allowing the organics to take cover behind them, exactly as infantry troops used a tank or APC for cover.

Jazz' scout-level sensor suite gave him much more information about the world around him, data which he shared with Optimus. "Wait, there's a human over there," he said.

"Just one guy?" Chip asked.

Diarwen touched her radio to reply. "That 'one guy' could be quite dangerous, if he has the power to open such a gate. Take no chances."

None of the humans or the Sidhe were wearing armor, so they made no objection to the two bots taking point.

What they found left them looking at each other in consternation. Lying in the sand was the still form of a dark-haired teenage boy. He was pale, long hair hanging loose over a black tunic and trousers, and had a sword buckled at his hip.

Diarwen approached him cautiously, while the others made certain that no one else was in the area. The lad had no obvious injuries. The cut of his clothing was Sidhe, and the sword was of Unseelie making...but this boy was quite human.

The Sidhe knelt, first appropriating the sword, then checking him for injuries.

A small wound explained a lot. "Humans call the arrow that makes this wound elf-shot. It is rather like a dart from a dart gun, though it can carry a magical charge as easily as a sedative or poison. Optimus, please tell me what you read from his aura."

He concentrated on his new-found healing abilities, which he was still learning to use. "I sense no injury other than that small wound, Diarwen; he seems only to be sleeping. There is a foreign substance in his blood that I cannot identify, but I have sent the chemical signature to Ratchet. He is bringing Dr. Parker, and requests that you check the boy's breathing and heart rate."

Diarwen did so, and reported, "His respirations are 15, and his pulse is strong and steady at 70 beats per minute. He seems stable, for the moment."

"Dr. Parker wishes to know his temperature, and the description of his skin and nails."

"He is quite cool, his skin somewhat pale, but his nails are normal. His gums are pink as well," she said, knowing that meant he was getting plenty of oxygen.

When Optimus relayed that information to Parker, she told them to keep him under close observation until she got there.

"I'd like to get my hands on whoever dumped a kid in the desert—I don't care _why_ they thought it was a good idea!" Chip growled.

Chromia agreed. "I'd like to catch that slagger, too!"

"As would I. We _were_ meant to find him quickly, but this still was a stupid thing to do. It may not have been an attempt at murder," Diarwen said, "but had we not found him as intended, the desert is merciless."

Jazz said, "They _were_ watchin' him, until they saw us comin'."

"This is truth," Diarwen admitted, reluctantly, but she was not inclined to be happy about that.

Ratchet arrived, with Ironhide, Chromia and the Big Twins, a few moments later. While Ratchet let Dr. Parker out and Optimus watched over them, Jazz joined the other four in a search of the area.

Diarwen gave way to Dr. Parker, while Jack got a gurney and the medical kit from his cargo space. Parker asked, "Diarwen, is there an iron issue with this kid?"

"No, he is human, not Sidhe."

"Then how'd he end up dressed like you?"

"There are always a few humans among the Unseelie, but this one is young to be out on his own, and I am willing to wager that it was not he who created that gate."

She flicked a penlight. "Pupils are equal, dilated and responsive to light. Ratch, what did they dose him with?"

"I've never scanned the drug before, but it's chemically similar to various plant-based sedatives. His body seems to be clearing it fairly quickly, so he won't be unconscious for long."

She checked his blood pressure and listened to his heart and lungs. "Let's get him back to medbay."

Jack helped her put him on the gurney, and better suspicious than sorry, they strapped him down carefully before they loaded him for transport. The kid had been found wearing a very sharp sword, after all.

Jazz said, "Here's where the gate was, got four different sets of hoof prints going in and out. Looks like as soon as they saw us comin', somebody on horses left the kid and booked."

Diarwen said, "A changeling, no doubt."

"What's a changeling?" the saboteur asked.

"The Unseelie gain a measure of resistance to iron and to many of the chemicals found on earth by spending time among humans when they are very young. They do this by kidnapping a human child and leaving one of their infants in that child's place. An Unseelie fae who spent his or her childhood on earth must come into direct contact with pure unalloyed iron to be burned by it, for example. When the child is of an age to be apprenticed, he or she will be recovered, and the child taken in his place returned to human society. It is one of the many practices of the Unseelie which the Seelie Court does not condone. This boy has been raised as the human servant of some Sidhe lord, and knows no other way, but now that they have no further use for him, they have simply abandoned him to fend for himself with no knowledge of your language or culture."

"Why knock him out?"

"Whoever left him, I believe, did not wish for him to answer questions until they were well away."

The group went back to base with the rescued boy.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Dr. Alicia Parker looked down at the enigma that was her newest patient. Colonel Lennox and Diarwen stood at her side.

Lennox asked, "What's his condition?"

"Good—as long as there are no complications from what they gave him, he should wake up in a few hours. He has ten pounds of gold coins in that bag—sir, do you realize that's over a quarter million dollars' worth of gold?"

Diarwen said, "It is real, too, not fae gold which will turn to something else on the next new moon."

"Why would they dump a slave they don't want anymore, but leave him with a small fortune in gold?" Lennox asked.

"The value of gold is highly inflated here—or rather, I should say it is relative to the value that those trading in it place upon it. One can buy more with gold here than in the Underhill. There, this amount of gold would be sufficient to live modestly for a year or two. Mithril there has a value similar to that which gold has here."

"Then someone gave him a very expensive sword."

"Yes, they did. It is the sort of gift one would give a favorite son going out into the world to seek his fortune. Also, his clothing is of a utilitarian style, nothing above his station—yet of the highest quality in workmanship. His jerkin _is_ far above his station—charmed marsh-drake skin—but it is also brand new. Someone loves this boy, but could no longer keep him. Queen Medb's will, no doubt."

"What does his medical history tell us?"

Parker fielded that. "He's in generally good condition, and he's been well fed and cared for. His joints don't show the damage I'd expect if he'd spent his childhood at hard physical labor. He has a well-healed broken arm that occurred approximately five years ago. He also has healed whip scars on his back, resulting from a single incident two to three years ago. That's the only physical evidence of abuse."

A scowl had locked Will Lennox' eyebrows down, but now, "At least whoever stole him didn't mistreat him as badly as they could have," the NEST commander said. "Dr. Parker, I've sent the DNA samples that you gave me to the FBI and all the missing children registries, and since he was abandoned on a military base, we're checking against those records as well. It seems most likely he was left on our doorstep because Diarwen speaks his language, but it's also possible that a relative was stationed in the area."

Diarwen said, "Look for a boy his age who has gone missing recently. It is likely that his parents did not know that he was a changeling. They will be looking for their son."

Lennox' scowl deepened. "This has ruined a lot of lives."

"Disrupted, certainly. Ruined? That, my friend, has yet to be seen. Perhaps we can be of assistance, so that changed lives need not be ruined."

Lennox un-scowled a fraction, but said to Parker, "Until we know more about him, he's a security risk. Keep him confined to medbay for now. And let me know when he wakes up."

"Yes, sir."

Soon after the midday shift change, the boy began to stir in his sleep. Parker called Diarwen to be there when he wakened, and when his dark eyes opened, she said quietly in Sidhe, "Rest easy, young one. You are safe here. I am Diarwen ni Gilthanel. May I have the honor of your name?"

The boy replied in an Unseelie accent, "I am Evanon, milady. I beg your protection. Lady Morithel said that I should pledge myself to your service, if you will have me."

"My protection I give you freely; do no harm and you will come to none. But as for service? With all my respect to the Lady Morithel, I would have us know each other better before making such a decision as that."

"Yes, milady."

"Evanon, what can you tell me of how you came here?"

"My changeling was ready to come home, so the Queen commanded that I be sent away."

"You have a sword and a sack of gold; those are not given to most returned changelings by the Unseelie."

"That was Lady Morithel's doing."

"I see."

"Milady, if you will not have me in service, what is to become of me?"

"Well, let us first try to find your birth family. Were you told anything of them?"

"Lady Morithel said that I was found in a large city in the east of your lands, for the sun was rising over the harbor. Beyond that, she knew little."

"When was this?"

"In summer, fourteen years ago."

"That is a great deal more to go on than we had a little while ago," Diarwen smiled. "Evanon, this is Dr. Parker, our healer. She has some questions for you, but she does not speak the language of the Sidhe. Have you any English?"

"No, nor any other human tongue," the boy replied.

"As I suspected. I will translate, then." She turned to Parker, and said in English, "His name is Evanon. He is a returned changeling, as I thought. He was in the household of an old acquaintance of mine. It was Morithel who gave him his money, his jerkin, and his sword. And I believe him, for she would not have watched over him if he had stolen it."

"Makes sense. Ask him how he's feeling."

Diarwen did so, and translated, "He says he feels as if he had too much wine."

"Do kids his age drink wine?"

"Among my people at that age, on special occasions, a small glass with dinner. The Unseelie indulge more, and at a younger age."

"Headache, upset stomach?"

At Diarwen's translation and the boy's nod, Parker said, "Tell him in a little bit I'll get him something to settle his stomach, and we'll get him rehydrated to flush whatever it is out of his system." She went on with the examination, taking the opportunity to get the boy's medical history and give him a thorough physical while she had the opportunity. As a result it took a bit longer than usual, but she was able to report to Lennox that their guest was fit and developing properly for his age.

She had just finished the exam and was handing the lad his shirt when there was a fuss out front. "Hey!" Chip's assistant Jack called. "You can't barge in there, Doc's with a patient!"

"That's a prisoner, not a patient, and I just need to see him for a second!" The voice sounded like Joe Treadwell, leader of Sector 5.

"Stop right there before I call security!" Jack may not have been military in the least, but he knew ER security protocol just fine.

Parker glowered, and told Diarwen, "Stay with Evanon. If that idiot comes back here, kick his aft!"

She steamed out into the triage area. "What the hell's going on in my medbay?"

"You got a returned Fae changeling in there?"

"So what if I do? I don't care if I got a fraggin' kangaroo dancing the polka in there, you have no authority in any medical area, and you _don't_ barge in here giving me orders!"

"You don't understand! I've dealt with a couple of the Unseelie before and they make crack addicts look like kindergarteners! He needs to be somewhere else, somewhere confined, for his own good and everyone else's."

"You insinuating I can't control a fourteen-year-old kid in my own medbay? Turn your ass around and march it right on outta here, and I don't want to see you back unless you're bleeding, you got that?"

Treadwell bit out, "CFB!" and departed.

Diarwen had moved to the other side of Evanon's bed, near the door, where she could intervene if necessary. She laughed, having learned that acronym from the NEST troops—it meant "clear as a fucking bell." It was not so much what Treadwell had said, she reflected, as the way he'd said it—for someone who had never served in the military, he had all the attitude of a veteran sergeant who had just received a moronic order from a superior officer, and had made it obvious that he obeyed against his common sense.

"Horse's ass!" Parker said to Jack. "I don't know which are worse, S5 or the Wreckers."

Jack said, "Lennox has them training together."

"Oh, fraggin' wonderful, so they can trade bad habits! That's _all_ I need." Parker shook her head and composed herself before she went back to her patient. It didn't help that Diarwen had been avidly listening to the exchange, and had a grin on her face as wide as the desert sunset when Parker returned to Evanon's room.

"How much did you hear?" the doctor snapped. "Oh, never mind. I'm glad it amused somebody, because it surely didn't do that for me."

Diarwen gave her a comradely wink. "I am not so very sure I would react any more graciously than you if someone attempted to usurp my authority. If he tried to take over a swordsmanship lesson from me, for instance, I would simply have stripped him naked with the blade, and left his clothes in no shape to be worn ever again. End of problem."

Parker compared that image to her own medical knowledge, and did something she would not have considered possible three minutes earlier: she considered the entire mess, and laughed heartily at it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Most of Chicago's Wacker Drive—in fact, the whole north side of the Loop—was a construction zone from Lake Michigan to the Randolph Street Bridge. Along that stretch of street, once busy with business traffic and now jammed with construction equipment, by some miracle a few buildings had been nearly untouched by the battle. The office suites, vacant before the battle due to the economy, were now full to bursting with businesses made homeless by the fighting.

Hastings Industries was one such firm. Its owner, Frank Hastings, paid little attention to his rented accommodations in an office building across from the work site which had been Hastings Tower.

It had been necessary to clear the foundations and start from scratch. A steady stream of concrete trucks were bringing materials for the new construction. They projected two years at a minimum before the new Hastings Tower would be ready to open.

Hastings knew that was a reasonable estimate. He had got his start in construction, and those were his workers and his equipment down there. They were good people, hard workers. If his engineers told him two years, that was how long it would take.

In the past three months, he had spared no expense to clear the site of its predecessor's debris both efficiently and respectfully. When the Decepticons brought down the tower, nearly five hundred of his employees went down with it. More had been killed in the fighting. He had made sure that every effort was made by the best forensic people money could buy to go over every scrap of wreckage and recover and identify all possible remains.

He had not made a media circus out of that, and he had not criticized other property owners who were taking less care. He had simply done it. Sending a social worker to someone's door to deliver the final end to all hope that their loved one had amnesia in a hospital somewhere was not something to hype. It was simply closure, giving those families a chance to get as much of their lives back as they could in the aftermath.

Hastings turned back to his desk and glanced at the picture of a blonde woman and a little boy with slightly darker hair. Alannah Hastings had been thirty years her husband's junior, barely old enough to have borne the six-year-old son who shared the frame with her. They were laughing in the sunlight, Liam playing with a helium balloon.

Hastings understood what those families were going through. Alannah and Liam had been killed along with their driver as they attempted to flee the battle zone.

They had had their whole lives in front of them, so much promise cut short by a fight between rival alien armies who did not belong on Earth in the first place.

Hastings himself had been among the few who had crawled out alive, by sheer chance caught in a void where the rubble had protected him until the fighting was over. Two thin scars crossed his cheek, barely missing his left eye before disappearing into his short, iron-gray buzz cut. The plastic surgeons had assured him they could be removed, but he was an old man who had too much work to do to be bothered with that foolishness.

His secretary informed him that his ten o'clock was in the outer office. "Send him in, Mrs. Haley."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later, a young man in sharp business attire was shown in by Mrs. Haley, who made eye contact with Hastings but got no messages regarding coffee or its lack, and shut the door behind him, herself on its other side.

Calvin Torvald tucked his Oakleys into the inside pocket of an Armani jacket, as befit an up-and-comer with Hastingscorp; as a "bright young attorney" before the Battle of Chicago, he was the beneficiary of stratospheric advancement in its aftermath. A lucky bout of strep throat had him laid up in bed with a 102-degree fever in his north shore condo, fifty miles away, when the battle started; Hastings mused that if he continued to have that kind of luck, he'd be a useful tool. However, he said only, "Welcome back, Cal. How was DC?"

"Same circus, different day, sir."

Hastings laughed, and offered the younger man a cigar. The attorney lit the expensive, illegally imported, and illegal-to-smoke cigar Hastings had given him, twin to Hastings' own. "Sir, I didn't think you'd pull off that sale in this economy."

"I didn't either. There was no real urgency to selling of the stocks of Jerzy's company, but he surely wasn't happy when it went through."

"You got a good return on investment, though, and so did he."

Hastings shrugged. "He got emotionally involved in the company. You can't do that. Better he learns it now than later."

"Still. You've made an enemy there, sir."

"I don't care. I needed the money to do this. The forensic nerds alone…that was a solid million and a half, just in consultant's fees."

"More like a solid two, by the time we put the insurance in place." Torvald relit his cigar, carefully turning it in the flame until the burn was equally distributed all the way around it.

"I know you weren't much in favor of it, but it had to be done."

"You were right and I was wrong, Mr. Hastings. I learned a lot from that deal."

"They don't teach you everything in law school, kid."

"No, sir. What I don't understand is why you treated the Decepticon remains with the same respect as the human bodies, especially since..."

"I did that because the Feds were breathing down my neck. I'd have recycled them into tin cans if it was left to me."

"Understood, sir."

Hastings took a satisfying pull from his own cigar. "What's the bad news?"

"None of our friendly congressmen are willing to introduce your bill this term, sir. There's no chance of passing it, and it would be political suicide to try in the current atmosphere."

It wasn't the news Hastings wanted to hear, but he wasn't stupid enough to shoot the messenger. In his view, it served no purpose to discourage the delivery of necessary information, no matter how unpleasant.

"Plan B?"

"I may have located an individual, Mr. Hastings." He produced a dossier from his briefcase, which Hastings sat down to examine. He absently waved Torvald to a chair as well.

When he opened the dossier, the first thing Hastings saw was an 8x10 photo of a dark-haired, thin faced man in his late forties, wearing a Hastingscorp Security Department photo ID clipped to his lapel. Hastings recognized his face, but he had a lot of employees, and had to read on to learn the fellow's name.

Lowell Zain had been with the company for only a short while. A US Army veteran, most of his military service had been redacted from his records. He had an honorable discharge, but that the military had let him go when his tour ended while so many others had been kept in made Hastings wonder. "Is he reliable?"

"He lost a brother in the Soccent attack in Qatar four years ago. That's why the military allowed him not to reup. I thought you'd want to look into it yourself before I questioned him directly and clued him in that there is an interest in him for his military skills."

"Good," Hastings replied. "Do a background check on him, financials, phones, everything. I want to know if he has ties that would get in our way."

"Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Not right now. I want you to focus on this." He folded the file, handed it back.

When the door shut behind Torvald, Hasting mused that the world had come together to deal with the Decepticon menace, and most of them were scrap—the rest had their metal heads down, and would stay that way if they knew what was good for them. But the others responsible for the carnage, the Autobots, had been given refuge by the US government and were living off the taxpayers' money. Supposedly part of a government agency known as NEST, the truth as far as Hastings had been able to determine was that they were living as a nation in exile. They often worked with US troops but they did not take orders from the Pentagon. They picked and chose their missions, so far the only mission that he'd been able to determine that they had undertaken other than dealing with Decepticons had been shutting down a nuclear-weapons plant in the Middle East. US interests were not their priority.

Hastings had wanted to introduce legislation to correct that, but forcing the Autobots into compliance with US interests wasn't going to be possible, at least not by legal means.

Time for Plan B: industrial espionage.

The Autobots' base at Mission City was clearly too secure to get an agent in place this soon. He was working on that, but it would take at least five years to establish a background that would be acceptable and he estimated another five years for that civilian employee to work his way into a position to gain useful information for them. That was in the works, but Hastings didn't want to wait ten years if he didn't have to.

Especially not when the technology he wanted was sitting in a warehouse at Area 51. That was where the wreckage of the Decepticon vehicles had been taken, and he already had agents in place at Area 51.

Once his engineers understood how their non-sentient technology worked, it would be a short leap to capturing one of them—preferably a Decepticon that no one would miss—and determining how that knowledge related to the living technology that made up Cybertronians.

Then the next time the tin cans decided to destroy an American city, humans would have the weaponry to stop them, and the knowledge to put it to good use.

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen watched a deuce-and-a-half truck, escorted by a trio of Ducati motorcycles, their riders identical except for leather jackets and helmets which matched the color of the bikes. The large truck carried the base's school-age children, and two fully-armed, off-duty NEST troops, just as it did every morning.

The noise level in Hangar B dropped drastically with the kids off to school for the day.

The smaller ones had finished their breakfast, then lined up to take their trays and energon cubes back,before shepherded them over to the big screen for their daily dose of Sesame Street. She chatted quietly with Monique Epps while the littles were fascinated with Big Bird and friends.

"Monique, how goes the search for a learning center for D'andre?"

The youngest Epps child had been recently diagnosed as autistic, but the pediatricians were still arguing about how that would affect him, and what sort of early intervention would suit him best. Monique replied, "We're looking at a place in Vegas called Hopewings Center. They have a holistic philosophy that I really like: they teach the whole child, not just their disability. Every child has an individual tutor or therapist from twenty to forty hours a week, depending on their needs. They're covered by our insurance. I can be there with them while my other kids are in school, and D'andre's therapist will teach me what I need to know to keep everything consistent between school and home. Consistency and routine are extremely important to kids like D'andre."

"That sounds wonderful."

"I know, I'm kinda paranoid that it's too good to be true. Will is managing the security check on the place personally, and he says he'll have an answer for us in a few days."

Diarwen looked over at D'andre. He was sitting on the floor underneath a table, ignoring the television and the other children as he put his blocks in order. "His aura is very..._orderly, _I suppose is the word that I am looking for."

Monique explained, "All's right in his world. He has his blocks, it's quiet, he feels safe, and no one is in his space. The problems start when one of those things is not true, and we don't understand yet exactly what makes him feel unsafe. You haven't seen one of his meltdowns yet. How did your people teach autistic kids? Or do Sidhe even have autism?"

"I do not know if it was the same thing. I have a cousin who has some sort of difficulties. To my knowledge he has never learned to read and write. He could speak, but rarely did, and like D'andre, he became horribly upset when his things were disturbed from the way he had them organized. He was not in the least an affectionate child, and the rest of us children were somewhat afraid of him, because we did not understand. He was older than I. He returned to Tir nan Og when I was quite young to live with our kin there, and eventually became an armorer whose skills were much in demand. He loved to put the rings in order for chain mail, you see, even the most complicated patterns were simple for him. As an adult, he was able to expand upon that skill, and eventually became very well known for it. But I know little of his day-to-day life after he returned to the Old Country."

Two of the small ones began an argument about Cookie Monster, and Diarwen smiled apologetically at Monique and went to break it up. Another needed a diaper change, and Monique handled that. It was five minutes later before D'andre's mother was able to say, "It sounds like your cousin was very high-functioning. In a culture where one-on-one, master-apprentice education is standard, no one's going to notice anything special about a kid who needs that kind of structure to learn."

"I never thought of it that way. Classroom difficulties are irrelevant when there are no classroom settings."

Monique picked up a folder that had been lying on the table. "I have some literature here from the pediatrician. You're welcome to look it over if you like."

"Thank you. I wish to educate myself, that I might be of all possible assistance to D'andre. Certainly I need to know what _never_ to do."

Monique reached for her coffee cup and sipped the hot brew. "Don't pick him up unless it's necessary, that's the big thing. Especially if he's having a tantrum, the best thing to do is give him a safe, quiet place to get over it. Trying to pick him up and comfort him only makes things worse for him. You already know from your cousin, don't get his things out of order. Noises bother him, sounds that the rest of us don't pay any attention to seem to be physically painful for him. And, like your cousin, don't expect him to return affection. That isn't D'andre."

"I can tell you that he does have emotions, Monique, and he cares about his family. He does not express it, and it seems as orderly as his other emotions now that all is going well. But he does care. He may not seem to be paying any attention at all, but he always knows where you are."

Monique smiled, and Diarwen could see, suddenly, what had attracted Bobby all those years ago. "You'll never know how much of a relief it is to know that. I was prepared to never see anything in return—I'd just be his mama and let him be D'andre."

Diarwen's eyes filled. But she said calmly, "Unconditional love that asks nothing in return is the greatest gift any parent can give a child. I have seen children who were assured of that love overcome many challenges—and perfectly healthy, normal children who never achieved their potential because that love was lacking in their lives."

The children's TV show ended. Monique smiled at Diarwen, nodded her thanks, and turned off the television as the kids got into the toy bins for their playthings.

A bot-sized shelving unit stored the sparklings' indoor toys on the upper shelves, while the floor level shelf had been converted to nap space for the human children. A data pad loaded with all the sparklings' stories that the adults could remember was lying on an upper shelf. Since Skysong had her language upgrades early, her brothers were always after her to read to them. She flapped her wings, painfully getting enough lift to reach the data pad, then dropped to the floor and landed on her aft with a loud clang.

Diarwen helped her to her peds. "Are you all right, sweetspark?"

"Yes." She glared at the hard floor as if it had done that on purpose. "My bottom hurts."

"Nothing looks dented. If it still hurts in a few more minutes, tell us, and Ratchet will make it better."

Sky had just turned away when a little girl named Gwen tugged on Diarwen's pants leg. "Go potty?"

As Diarwen took her to the necessary, she watched as Starskimmer and Stormwing crowded in, clamoring for a story. The Tiny Trine sat in a circle and Song established a wireless connection to the datapad, then balanced it so that her brothers could see it.

When Diarwen returned Gwen to the group, Starsong was reading the story of a minibot who found and befriended a damaged turbofox. Diarwen and Monique easily followed the story by looking at the pictures even though neither spoke Cybertronian.

Monique saw a little boy about to throw a block at another kid. She quietly took it away from him, and gently but firmly sat him down in the timeout chair. The kids all knew that throwing things was Not Allowed, but occasionally needed a reminder.

Diarwen knew enough about glyphs to know how they were formed, and to look up their meanings in a lexicon. Listening to the children's story, she was surprised to find that she was beginning to read a few glyphs here and there.

When Song began to read a description of the turbofox, Monique noticed that D'andre was staring intently at the little seeker and the datapad. She poked Diarwen. They watched as D'andre pointed at two glyphs, each of them a distinct name for a certain frequency of light, both falling into the range of colors that humans would have lumped together as "brown." Something clicked. The boy nodded decisively. A moment later, he went back to his blocks as if nothing had happened, and picked up the darker brown one.

Diarwen and Monique looked at each other, bewildered by this intriguing glimpse into the child's world. Monique said, "I hope that learning center can explain some of this to me."

"May it be so," Diarwen replied thoughtfully.

Optimus stopped on his way from ops to Jazz' office, and listened to the littles reading for a moment. He told Diarwen, "That was one of my favorite stories when I was small."

Diarwen said, "It is a beautiful language, once one grows accustomed to hearing the range of sounds which our vocal cords are not designed to make as part of a spoken language. But it seems more a language for mathematicians than for poets."

"In that, you are mistaken. I will copy some of our poetry to a data pad for you, if you wish."

"I would like that. Thank you."

"Come to my office after shift change. I should be able to find something suitable."

She smiled, and nodded a bow. "Until then."

Diarwen watched him go, then returned her attention to the children, sorting out a dispute wherein a little girl began to cry because a playmate had taken her doll.

Monique, who had watched the interaction between the Sidhe and the Prime, was quite thoughtful. She had a brother who had been extremely "out" in high school—a high school where gay boys were routinely harassed and beaten by the school's contingent of bullies. She had decided early in life that of all the damn fool reasons there were to be bigoted against another person, who they loved was among the dumbest and least possible to justify. Because she was open-minded and non-judgmental about pairings that others might consider unlikely or even unbelievable, Optimus and Diarwen's _friendship_ flew well above the radar when she saw the way they looked at one another. She wished them every happiness, but she remembered her brother's trials and tribulations, and wondered what other people's reactions would be when they began to catch on. For now, she decided the best thing that she could do was keep her eyes open, and her mouth shut.

The children's squabble settled as they agreed to share their toys. Diarwen and Monique laughed as the kids dressed all the dolls in tiny BDUs, the fashion princesses as well as the soldier boys—and laughed again when the fashion princess' pink convertible became one of the characters in their story.

Diarwen loved that no one was closer to Mother Earth than a child. It was impossible to look after them without grounding herself in that closeness.

Even when they were driving their babysitters crazy. But after a couple of hours, it was lunch time, and two other mothers and a daddy relieved them.

Diarwen texted Optimus, "I am free for lunch. Are you busy? Would you like me to bring your energon to your office with me?" She knew he was likely to work straight through lunch, if no one harassed him to refuel.

After a moment, the reply came, "Thank you, that is very kind."

The human lunch line was a mob scene at the moment, with all the children clamoring for dessert and complaining about the vegetables they were issued. She appropriated a cart and loaded a cube of energon on it. The larger soldiers made a point of swinging one of the large glowing pink items around in each hand to show off their muscles, but Diarwen did not see the point in courting a hernia—or trying to balance that as well as her own lunch tray.

A salad with her name on it was waiting in the refrigerator case. She knew that it would have been prepared with all organic ingredients; she preferred to save the small amount of preservatives that she could get away with eating for splurging on a hotdog or some other variety of tasty junk food. A cup of hot water and a peppermint tea bag rounded out her selection.

Optimus collected his energon cube, then offered Diarwen and her lunch a lift to the desk top. She spread out her napkin on the human-sized table that he kept there for visitors' use, and opened her salad container. She was pleased to find a small container of Sarah Lennox' homemade raspberry vinaigrette inside, as well as a whole-grain roll.

"The wind has calmed. It should be a nice afternoon for your flight with the sparklings," Diarwen said, buttering (with real butter) her roll, and dressing her salad.

"Good. The weather report suggested as much but I have had no opportunity to go outside and check on the conditions."

"Ratchet has not been harassing you to get out more?"

"Not since he learned that I have been flying with Skysong every day."

"She lifted off under her own power today to get a data pad from a top shelf."

"Yes, I saw her bump her skidplate. She is recovering well—I know that it is far slower than she would like, but there are definite improvements. That was a controlled landing, if a rough one."

The sneaky thought made it past Diarwen's fear of flying that she was a bit jealous because Skysong shared something with Optimus which she could not. Ridiculous, she told herself. Those fae meant to fly were born with wings, a feature she completely lacked.

Optimus carefully placed a human-sized datapad on the table, for to him it was little larger than a postage stamp. "I loaded the latest version of the lexicon in it as well as the poetry. If you highlight a glyph and triple-tap, the translation will pop up. If we do not yet have a glyph defined in English, it will append that glyph to a file which you can email for translation when you have finished for the day. I hope that you will enjoy my selections."

She checked the contents, and translated the title of the first. "'The Song of Vector and Sigma'?"

Optimus explained, "That is one of our classical courtship poems. Vector pursued Sigma for many vorn before Sigma accepted; it was a popular subject of classical poetry. You commented that Cybertronian is a language for mathematicians. Vector was said to be the greatest mathematician that our race has ever known. Wheeljack assures me that this poem could equally well be translated into an equation as words. Yet many Cybertronians who have little interest in mathematics besides its day-to-day usefulness have saved the final verse to memory, for it is considered one of the deepest and purest declarations of love in our literature, in much the same way as the English-speaking world views Browning's 'Sonnet 43.'"

"I should be a bit nervous were I asked to translate 'Sonnet 43' into the Sidhe language, and I am much better with English than I am with Cybertronian. I fear I have little hope of doing it justice."

"Perhaps. But then, perhaps, some things are universal."

Diarwen smiled. "Perhaps they are, at that."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Meanwhile, deep space, aboard Excellion)

Excellion bumped into a taller mech in the crowded hallway, and apologized. The other, bearing the badge of the civilian militia said, "No problem. Hey, ain't...?" and trailed off.

Probably, Excellion thought, because he didn't know how to say "Ain't you the ship we're ridin' in? And if you are, _who's minding the store_?"

He said peaceably, "I am Excellion, yes. Most of my consciousness is in this remote, to partake of Milestrina's performance tonight. But I still monitor all my optic units and sensors on the bridge from time to time, just in case."

The other mech, to Excellion's relief, did not say, "Oh," and move away. "Explains why I don't see you much."

The remote "grinned." "Indeed. May I ask where you boarded us? Was it on Cybertron, or later?"

"Tyger Pax."

"I remember," Excellion said, as of course he did.

"I'm Thoroughfare. Pleased to meet you."

The crowd had, by this time, swept them into the Assembly Room. Excellion said, "Pleased here as well, Thoroughfare. Drop by to talk some time, if you will."

"Er. Where?"

Excellion laughed. "Oh, anywhere. Just open a comm and ask for me. Unless we're in battle or drill, I'll answer."

"Fair enough. I'll talk to you later, then."

Excellion's remote went to the place reserved for him. Taking it, he hoped Thoroughfare would indeed speak with him from time to time; few of his passengers seemed willing to do so.

Cybertronians were social creatures, and he was frequently lonely.

The tall mech left him, to stand in the back with others of similar height, everyone arranged ladder-fashion so that all could see.

Milestrina was no longer the beauty she had been in her youth, of course, but a Conservator was not revered only for the exquisite framing and paint common to the class. No, Conservators held the key to Cybertron's past in their long, slender servos.

During the Golden Age, these bots had made a living entertaining the highborn, but their function went far beyond that. They collected songs and music and dance, holovids, stories, plays, images of artwork and sculpture—the cultural treasures of Cybertron. Conservators gave up the ability to take an alt form, choosing instead more memory, and advanced holographic projection. They generally traded strength and armor for speed and grace, but at least part of that grace was attained through martial-arts training.

Still, it meant that few of the Conservators had survived even the first skirmishes of war. Milestrina might well be the last of her kind, and she was nearing the end of her lifespan.

Excellion routinely did all that he could to provide for her comfort, making sure that resources were allocated to keep her quarters an optimal temperature, sometimes asking other bots to short their rations a little so that she would not need to do so—whenever he could sneak a little extra past her notice.

Milestrina herself was at peace, and prepared for her return to the Well by backing up her many vorn of memories, usually by sharing them with Excellion because he had the memory reserves to contain them. But sometimes she preserved a song by singing it for others to hear and remember, or saved a story by telling it to those who would listen: Excellion counted himself fortunate to be among them. Though when she decided to do that, everyone who possibly could got into the audience.

Milestrina's iridescence had faded, but her lightweight armor gleamed from a fresh waxing, and the sparkling silver and crystals of her helm piece glittered like new, tinkling like tiny bells with her graceful movements. Moonracer enjoyed giving other bots a detail job, and when Milestrina allowed her to work on the Conservator, she outdid herself.

A spellbound audience listened in silent fascination as Milestrina told them a story of the Iacon of her youth, when the Empire at the height of its glory had spanned the galaxy. She projected a hologram around them, showing them the triumph of art and architecture that the city had been in those days. The bots who lived in it had thrived amid its hustle and bustle, its teeming commerce and industry, the intrigues of the great noble houses. Above it all, the Original Primes had ruled in wisdom and splendor.

A youngling asked, awe in her voice, "Did you _know_ them, Elder?"

The ancient Conservator's faceplates curved into a smile. "I did. I was often called upon to entertain at the palace. Our Prime reminds me very much of Prima. He was first a warrior—Prima, that is—the rebellion against the Quintessons saw to that. He was stern and serious, but very approachable, and very gentle with sparklings. An amazing swordsman.

"Alpha Trion, now, that mech was anything but approachable. He commanded the respect of all, but the affection of few. He saw the past and the most likely future as well as the present, but as a result he had little patience with those who chose to disregard his advice. However, it generally was good, and reflected his practical approach to life. Prima set our course, but it was Alpha Trion who made things work orn to orn."

She looked out over her audience, perhaps the last of her long life. Of course, she had that thought now at every performance. She smiled as much at herself as at the row of rapt younglings seated in a half-circle around her, and directed a quick grin at Excellion's remote. _Oh, you think I do not know, shipformer, but I know. I know what you do for me. I shall make a song of you, and then you too will know that I know. _

"Solus was a smith, the creator of the council's weaponry, among so many other things. She, and those bots who worked under her, built sparkling frames. It was said she had a servo in the creation of all our first frames. She loved music, and after a battle often she would call on me to play for her. But mostly, when I remember her, it is her smile and her laughter that I recall. She and Prima were wonderfully well-matched to one another, he the sunlight falling on Cybertron, she the energon running through it.

"Nova...ah, Nova. Every femme in Iacon, even those who preferred other femmes, and a fair few of the mechs as well, I think, were in love with him. Like Solus, Nova was an inventor, but he was more a scientist than an artificer. And, he was an explorer. He created the spacebridge network which opened the galaxy to us. For him, there was always something new...a new discovery in his laboratory, a new star system to explore, a new alien species to befriend, and he spread that excitement to everybot around him. He annoyed the priests greatly, for to Nova nothing was beyond question and exploration.

"Vector and Sigma...now there is a love story for the ages. Vector's world was one of numbers, defined, logical. Vector understood the interrelationship of the dimensions. His reality was based in what his formulae could tell him. Sigma was closest to Primus. He walked half in our world, half in the Well of All Sparks. Reality, for him, went far beyond what we can see with our optics—or define with our mathematics. At first it seemed that they had nothing in common. Since no equation could explain the things Sigma knew, he cared little for equations...and Vector had little interest in things that his numbers could not encompass. Yet, they were sparkmates, and how long can any of us deny that? Eventually Vector's logic told him that there was no other acceptable outcome. Sigma was oblivious. But Vector persisted, and eventually he taught Sigma the beauty inherent in mathematics. And Sigma taught Vector of the love to be expressed in numbers. You really should have seen Iacon after we dressed it for their bonding." She projected another holographic image, but where before Iacon had been a lovely city, now it was a fairyland: crystals sparkled everywhere, sending rainbows to meet with one another, so that Iacon was never in darkness. And the canopies that hung from tower to tower had been of some material, its secret long lost, which carried the rainbows which struck it end to end, gracing the city with yet more light.

Milestrina did not mention the Fallen, and no one asked. It was as if the corrupted Prime had never been. But she remembered him before that, the curious scholar whose studies led him down a path he should never have followed—tellingly, against Alpha Trion's wishes. Milestrina thought that much misery might have been avoided had old Alpha explained to and advised, rather than simply commanded, the younger Prime. But the lure of forbidden lore had proven too strong.

She smiled then, and allowed the projection to fade. "Well now. It is time, I think, for a story. Which shall it be?"

The younglings argued over which story they wanted to hear before their recharge time, but before that could be settled, Excellion in his remote said something on a private channel to Drift, and the two excused themselves.

A moment later, Drift's voice came over the public channel. ::All hands, report to battle stations, repeat, all hands, report to battle stations, this is not a drill!::

There was a thunderous clatter as dozens of peds hit the deck. Milestrina was among those tasked with taking the smaller younglings to the safe room that Excellion provided for them. If worse came to worst and he fell in battle, that room would remain secure.

Milestrina's frame type had never been intended for warfare, but that had not, ever, stopped her from defending herself. She had a gun in her subspace, and if hard pressed, more than one Decepticon had discovered, to his regret, that the pins in her ornate helm piece were quite sharp.

Milestrina, along with several other similarly light-framed mecha, guided the little ones to safety.

When the last was in, Excellion transformed the room's hatchway back into a seamless corridor wall. Decepticons who got aboard him would never know it was there.

Milestrina's fields calmed the younglings as they settled in to wait for the all-clear.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Excellion reported to Drift, "I detected four bogies on our back-trail at extreme sensor range. I took standard evasive maneuvers, but they've stuck with me, and they're continuing to close."

"Identification?"

"None yet, sir, if they're Cybertronian they've suppressed their IFF."

"Standard seeker tactics," Drift noted. Seekers tended to prefer close combat, attacking in passing with their deadly talons, in an attempt to rip their targets to shreds. But they also had ranged weapons, and a wise trine leader would order their use to soften up a target. That accomplished, their battles were nearly always finished talon to talon. "How long before they close to attack range?"

"Approximately two breem."

"Have you alerted the Aerialbots?" the Knight asked.

"Affirmative, they are nearly prepared to launch now."

They went different directions at the lifts. Excellion sent his remote down to the hangar deck, because if one of the approaching mecha boarded him it would be by way of his launch tubes. He parked the remote in a central location and returned his consciousness to his primary control centers. By the time Drift reached the command deck and strode onto the bridge, Excellion was ready. He put up his visuals of the four newcomers on a central screen.

With the captain on deck, Hound raced to the hangar deck to be sure the militia were ready to repel boarders. So far, their only engagement had been with a ragtag band of scavengers in one of the systems where they had stopped to replenish their energon supply. While the desperate scavengers had terrified a few civilian salvage parties, they had been no serious threat to Drift and his disciplined Autobot troops.

This, though, might be the first real action his militia would encounter. He wanted to make sure they were prepared.

Meanwhile, Silverbolt reported to Drift, "Aerialbots are ready to launch, Captain."

Drift acknowledged, "Stand by." He told Excellion, "Let me know when they get close enough for a visual."

"Yes, sir."

They waited tensely as klick by klick the four bogies, flying in a diamond formation that was the typical wingleader and wingmechs pattern, with a fourth mech added to bring up the rear, came close enough for Excellion to see them. "Slag," he said. "The wingleader's Strika."

Drift said, "I haven't had the pleasure, but her reputation preceded her when I was Deadlock."

"That good, then?"

"Good enough that she was a threat to Starscream, but she was too valuable for Megs to let him offline her."

"Who's that with her, Lugnut and Blitzwing?"

Excellion replied, "Should be, but...no, I don't think so. I don't recognize the other three."

On Strika's orange and purple wings flew a black mech, visible against the void only by the bright yellow and green glyphs incised and painted on his armor, and a white one with blood red and very dark maroon stripes. Bringing up the rear was a smaller green femme.

Silverbolt supplied, "I know those other three, they're a trine. The black one is Dreadwing and the red and white one is Skyquake. They're twins. The little green one is some femme clanmate of theirs, I don't think I ever heard her name. She was still a youngling the last time we saw her. Strika and the Twins together—I don't think we'll be able to stop them all, Drift."

"Then don't try. If you have to fight them, hit and run on Strika, soften her up, but watch your afts out there. Bring them in range then break off and return to the hangar entrance. We might need Superion to take care of one of the twins if they board us."

"Understood."

"Bolt, don't let her get her talons on you. You have a size advantage against most Seekers that makes up for your inexperience. That won't work against Strika. She has the size and the skill."

Silverbolt said, "Yes, Drift," using his commander's name to acknowledge the order. He certainly didn't want to fight Strika hand to hand individually, and would not do so intentionally—even as Superion, the Aerialbots would hesitate to take on the powerful seeker. He wasn't sure they would be able to avoid it; protecting Excellion and the refugees was first priority, of course.

If Silverbolt did have to close with Strika, he hoped to keep her occupied long enough for his smaller gestalt-brothers to get in a few good shots. But they would do their best to keep it at range. Getting himself killed, or even so badly injured that his gestalt could not form Superion, would be disastrous.

Soon they approached closely enough to the Decepticons that their formation appeared on the Aerialbots' tactical sensors.

Strika told them, "Megatron is dead, and Starscream is also no more. I claim leadership of the Flock. Join with me, little brothers."

"We aren't your brothers. Our loyalty is to Optimus Prime. Turn back now."

"You are only mechlings. So is Excellion. Drift? Do you hear me? Do you hide behind younglings?"

Drift said, "I'm not hiding, Strika. You'd better listen to Silverbolt and turn back while you still can. You're right, they're young—hurt them, and you deal with me."

"There is no need for violence. I don't have the resources to take all of your refugees in, but I'm here to offer sanctuary to the Conservator, Milestrina, as well as to any seekers among you who would fly on my wing. Ask the Conservator if she would hide among refugees, or return to do her duty and teach the young as we rebuild Cybertron."

Drift replied, "The Prime has called us to Earth. If Megatron and Starscream really are dead, you should be following us, to swear your allegiance to our rightful leader, rather than setting yourself up to meet the same fate they did."

"Megatron will be avenged. The Prime will fall."

"By your hand? I doubt that," the Knight replied.

"Let Milestrina speak for herself. Or do you disagree with Optimus Prime's belief that freedom is the right of all sentient beings?"

"I believe that I won't let you try to blackmail her into going with you by holding the rest of us hostage. Get out of here, and I'll pass along your offer. If she wants to go with you, she'll ping you herself."

"I offer her the chance to perform her function, to pass along her knowledge to a continuing line of Cybertronians. Only seekers can create new hatchlings now. You are dead ends, unable to reproduce yourselves. If she stays with you, her knowledge will die with you," Strika said, and the chill of that knowledge dripped from her words. "I demand that you let me make her this offer, and hear her acceptance or refusal with my own audials."

"You're in no position to make demands. There are four of you, and hundreds of us—including Excellion himself. We'll consider negotiations when you're no longer coming in with weapons hot."

"Very well." Strika shipped her guns, and after a few klicks' hesitation, the other seekers did as well.

Drift certainly didn't trust her just because she didn't have guns pointed at him anymore, but Strika did have a point that, at the present time, he couldn't offer Milestrina a better way to preserve the knowledge that she guarded than the Seekers could. Theirs were still viable lines. He called her to the bridge.

The small Conservator was dwarfed by the Knight of Light as she stood beside him. Strika's projection appeared on a holoscreen in front of them. "Elder Conservator."

"Flight leader."

"Winglord, Elder."

Milestrina said firmly, "I believe that has yet to be confirmed by the Flock."

"A technicality; there are no other claimants. Starscream is dead, killed on Earth."

"Even so, it would not be properly respectful to the honor of Vos to bandy his title about until it has been confirmed."

"Very well." There was a very short pause, in which Excellion suddenly understood that Strika had somehow lost the initiative in this conversation. But then the seeker said, "I ask to be considered as your Patron, Elder, that you might tutor my hatchlings in the ways of our people."

"My Patron. That is quite an honor, since your house is a prestigious one. But I am sure you know that for all my life, my Patrons have been the Primes."

"Optimus Prime can no longer safeguard the knowledge in your keeping past his own span of vorn. Once these grounders pass, without the All-Spark, there will be no more sparklings, and eventually no more mecha. The future of Cybertron lies with the Flock now."

"My loyalty has been given already, Strika, and I will not break my word. As for the future, Primus will decide. Perhaps it is time for the old ways to pass with me."

Strika scowled and shrieked,, "You have no right! Primus decreed that the Conservators were to be the cultural guardians for all of Cybertron, not just the Autobots."

"And the Primes are the rightful rulers of all Cybertron, not just the Autobots," Milestrina replied, her optics battle-bright, her backstrut straight as a ruler. Drift and Perceptor exchanged a glance, but did not permit themselves a smile. "If you wish for your hatchlings to learn from me, petition the Prime for a truce for that purpose. If your only reason for this call was to try to suborn me to the Decepticon cause, then your business here is at an end."

Drift was hard-pressed to keep an audial-to-audial grin off his faceplates. "Milestrina has spoken, Strika. Will there be anything else?"

"The time for words has ended." Strika's projection cut off, and instantly she and her squadron scattered.

Drift and Milestrina watched the smaller Aerialbots make a series of short, harassing runs on Strika. She was heavily armored enough to ignore their fire, but still, the small injuries would take a toll.

Drift turned to Milestrina. "Would you like to return to the safe room, Elder?"

"Not just yet. A credible claim upon the Winglord's Aerie at this juncture in time could be of historic importance. I should be recording this."

"You may remain, on the condition that you promise to return if we are under serious threat of boarding. It would not be well for you to fall into Strika's servos after defying her."

The Conservator nodded. Old she might be; doddering fool she was not. "As you wish, Captain."

However, once Strika's team reformed, Silverbolt called off the attack, fighting a defensive retreat back to a position under the range of Excellion's weapons.

Any cityformer's guns were fearsomely powerful weapons, but when the split-spark twins Skyquake and Dreadwing joined forces, they were able to create shields that could defend themselves, as well as their leader and their young trine-mate, from those massive guns.

A number of Excellion's passengers had magnalocked to his hull, hoping for a chance to bring their personal weapons to bear. When they realized that the twins' shielding was strong enough to turn aside Excellion's weapons, however, they retreated to cover the docking bay entrance. This conflict would be settled in close quarters, but better for that to happen outside, not within Excellion's frame.

When Strika's squadron was committed to their attack run, Drift joined the defenders. Bulkhead and Hotrod nodded respectfully as he approached.

Excellion warned them when the seekers were within the minimum range of his weapons, an astroklick before the four of them skimmed his hull and transformed.

They were also too close in for the twins' shields to be effective. Bulkhead charged the youngest Seeker. The young femme saw the Wrecker bearing down on her and screeched, diving behind Dreadwing. The black seeker blocked Bulkhead's mace with a heavily-armored forearm and the two mecha began a ped-to-ped fight.

The Autobots opened fire on Skyquake and Strika. The flight leader located Drift and drew an energon blade from her subspace. They met with a clash of blades while the Aerialbots combined into Superion to take on Skyquake.

Excellion turned the conn over to Perceptor, and inhabited his remote. Hound had placed his militiabots at several defensive points around the hangar closest to the fighting, forming a second line in case the 'Cons got past the defenders on the hull. They exchanged quick good luck wishes as Excellion let himself out a small sally port near the launch tubes..

The din of battle was felt through the deck plates rather than heard. Excellion magnalocked his remote's peds to his hull to prevent the recoil spinning him off into space, and fired a spread of rockets at Skyquake. The little green femme was mixing it up with Hot Rod closer to him, but Skyquake was the greater threat. He fired over both their heads and staggered the big red and white seeker, leaving him open for a mighty blow from Superion.

Drift was smaller than Strika, but as strong and heavily armored as the largest of Seekers. And Dai Atlas had taught him to fight large Seekers. It came down to a contest of swordsmanship. No one else on either side wanted to get in the middle of that, and as a result the fight was attracting a lot of attention from other fighters trying to stay out of their way.

Excellion made use of the distraction to take aim for another shot at Skyquake. Dreadwing, however, saw his brother's danger and shouted a warning, firing across the battlefield to deal with this threat to his twin.

Hit badly, the remote spun off into space. Excellion barely transferred his awareness back to his primary frame before the remote went into stasis lock.

Bulkhead brought his mace down on the black Seeker's wing. Roaring in pain, the Seeker reacted with a vicious talon swipe that ripped three deep furrows into the Wrecker's chest plate. Energon sprayed into space, and in the confusion no one could tell how much belonged to either.

Infuriated, Dreadwing grabbed Bulkhead by the arm and threw him bodily off, Bulkhead spinning after the remote. But the Seeker's wing was badly damaged.

Drift capitalized on Strika's distraction and slashed at her neck, a blow she could only deflect and not completely parry. One of his swords sliced deep into her shoulder.

Cursing in the Seeker dialect, she ordered a retreat, and the four of them fought their way out.

Busy recovering Bulkhead and Excellion's remote as soon as Skyquake broke off combat, the Aerialbots were unable to give chase.

Once the Aerialbots returned and everyone was safely back inside, Perceptor walked Excellion, still stunned, through setting a course to get them out of there before Strika returned with reinforcements, then hurried to Medbay.

Bulkhead's wound looked nasty and he had lost a lot of energon, but the actual repair would not be difficult. Perceptor told Moonracer to take care of him, then turned to Excellion's remote.

It was severely damaged, still viable only because it had crashed into stasis lock.

Perceptor paged Excellion. "Are things quiet up there?" he asked.

"Yes. I need to maintain long-distance scans, but nothing otherwise requires my attention. What do you need?"

_A way to tell you you're going to be alone for a long, long _time, Perceptor thought. "It's your remote," is what he said aloud. "It can be repaired, but I don't have the tools or supplies to do so. Right now, it's in stasis lock, to prevent cascade failure. It'll be stable until Ratchet can look at it, but that's all I can do for it at the present. I'm sorry, Excellion."

"I too." Excellion broke the contact. Perceptor knew that without the remote, it would be a long, lonely journey to follow Prime's summons for Excellion, who had no close kin left and no true cohort. That was not a good situation for anybot, but especially for shipformers, who depended on their remotes and cohort bonds for the companionship that all Cybertronians needed.

Though the military leadership was probably becoming a true cohort, bonds had not yet formed. The civilians had already formed clan bonds centering on Rivet, a construction bot from Tyger Pax who had become their leader, and they had numerous cohorts within those bonds.

Bonds and cohorts were more complicated among the Autobots. The Aerialbots and the youngling Protectobots had their gestalt bonds. Moonracer was Perceptor's apprentice. Bulkhead and Hotrod were both Wreckers, unlikely to form a cohort with anyone else who was not also a Wrecker, or willing to become one. Drift had survived the other Knights, but that had been an extremely close cohort, and the price of his survival had been closing himself off—not that Perceptor would ever say anything about that observation. But he was unlikely to open up to the young shipformer who had become his Charge. That left Hound and Bluestreak as possible cohort for Excellion, Perceptor thought. Hound was curious and completely unprejudiced. He related to the spark, not the frame type. And Bluestreak was happy to carry on any conversation, any time, anywhere. They would make perfect companions for the shipformer, and very likely would become a cohort, in time. As happy as any meddling maiden aunt, Perceptor went about arranging this.

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Santa Maria of the Desert parish was a quiet place, set in a bedroom community on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Like many parishes, its congregation had aged along with its priest. There were fewer and fewer young parishioners in the pews every year, except for the obligatory Easter Sunday Mass. There were still enough, though, that he should have had an assistant, had one been available.

Father James Grady thought it a good thing that he spoke fluent Spanish, and so could celebrate the Mass and hear confessions in both Spanish and English. When he had first come to Santa Maria, his parish had been mostly Irish with a sizable minority of Mexican-Americans. Now, it was about half and half.

An elderly lady came in to confess a list of "sins" that amounted to a laundry list of complaints against the drug-abusing grandson and his girlfriend with whom her health forced her to live because they were her only relatives. He listened patiently, for she needed that as much as she needed absolution. She left the confessional, unburdened of sins as well as frustration, and he heard a kneeler drop to the floor as she prepared to say the ten Hail Mary's that he had assigned as penance.

The confessional door opened and closed, and a tall, heavily built man came in. He knelt carefully, favoring sore joints.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been thirty-eight years since my last confession, and since then—I think I broke all the commandments, but I'd might as well start with the worst ones first. I murdered twenty-three people."

Father James' eyes widened. He had been a parish priest in Las Vegas long enough not to assume that everyone who came through the doors of his church with an Italian accent was necessarily a mobster—nor to be surprised when such a person did confess something Family-related, up to and including murder. But it was the first time a total stranger had knelt and confessed mass murder to him. He prayed for wisdom and replied, "Tell me more about this, my son."

"I was a sniper in Vietnam, and when I came home...well, that set me up to go into the Family business, if you know what I mean. I've done a lot of horrible things. Most of the people I shot were made men, but...not all of them were. The one I feel the worst about was that reporter. He had a wife and a little boy. The only wrong thing he did was get too close to a drug-smuggling operation. I don't even think he knew what he was into, but they couldn't buy him off. Then there was this whore...excuse me, father, prostitute, who turned state's evidence. Will God really forgive me for all that? I'd understand if He wouldn't."

"God forgives everyone who comes to him with a contrite heart," the priest replied. "Why are you coming forward now after all this time?"

"Because I'm a coward, Father. I just found out I have cancer. There's nothing they can do. I don't have much time to set things right, but I'm afraid to die with all this on my soul."

"My son, God understands. There's nothing you can confess that He hasn't heard before, and forgiven before. Trust in His grace, and go on with your confession."

"Yes, Father." The hit-man went on to detail a long, sordid life of crime and misery, both caused and suffered.

At the end of it, Father James said, "A wholehearted attempt to set things right demonstrates true contrition. Go to the police and confess to these murders. All of those people have relatives who are suffering because they don't know what happened to them, and they haven't had the chance to bury them. Tell the police where the bodies are buried."

"Father, I got a son somewhere. If Joey finds out I talked, he'll kill him. You know he will."

"This 'Joey' is responsible for his own soul. You need only tell the police that you took these people's lives, and where you buried them. Beyond that, you don't have to say anything. But you do have to give these families closure before we can go any further."

"Father, I can't risk that. Joey's gonna know. I can't protect my son because I don't know where he is. His mom flew the coop when she found out what I was, and I—well, I figured they were better off. I heard she died a few years ago, but nobody said anything about Pasquale. Joey'd be able to find him, though. If I wrote down all this stuff, could you get the information to the police somehow? Maybe Joey wouldn't learn how they found out where the bodies are, and Pasquale would be safe. I don't care what happens to me. If I need to go to prison for what I did in order to be forgiven, I'll confess to the bank job. They lock you up over money faster than they do over a person's life. I'll be dead before they manage to convict me of murder, anyway."

Father James considered the probability that the law would try to force him to break the sanctity of the confessional and reveal how he had come by the information. But that wasn't what was important. If it was God's will that he do his duty while jailed for contempt of court, then that was what would happen. "Yes, I can do that. Return with whatever you want me to give them as soon as you have it written."

"Thank you, Father."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The desert around the Nevada base reminded Ironhide of Cybertron.

This, though, was an organic world. If you could somehow subtract the organic...ness of it all, the old mech mused, it would be a bit like his home.

He dug up a handful of the sands of not-quite home, and let the silica trickle through his digits.

Annabelle saw that, and toddled over, Evanon right behind her. "Castle?" she said hopefully.

"Haven't got the molds for it, sparkling," he said gruffly.

Annabelle, undeceived by his tone, was also unfazed. She climbed up into his "lap," and sat on a kneeplate, kicking her legs to keep them away from his black plating.

It was still early enough in the morning that the sun was not pouring merciless heat over them like molasses. But that part of the day was coming soon; there were clouds in the east, but they were too far away to provide shade.

Evanon tilted his head. "What is a castle?" he asked.

This boy, Ironhide realized, was as much a stranger here as any Cybertronian. Diarwen had carefully taught him a few English sentences, but his language skills were still sorely limited.

Annabelle rushed into a speech about princesses and knights, which somehow involved both Barbie and Ironhide, and Evanon knit his brows in puzzlement.

"Hey, you," Ironhide said, and offered her a palm. She stopped her story to scramble into it, and he lifted her to his shoulder. "A castle," Ironhide said to Evanon, "was made for defense. It's a great big house usually made out of stone."

"Oh," the boy said. "We hadn't those in the Underhill."

"Here, once the humans discovered how to use chemicals to throw a ball a long distance, they stopped building castles."

"You would have to throw it very hard to have any effect if the 'castle' were made of stone," the boy said, sitting down in Ironhide's shadow.

"Yeah. They use guns and gunpowder to do that."

"Those I have heard of. The Unseelie think them a dishonorable weapon, but they cannot stand against iron."

"Like Diarwen?"

"Yes. She is Seelie, though, and I was with the Unseelie."

Ironhide thought for a moment, watching a roadrunner a good distance away doing its roadrunner thing, even, he noted, in the absence of Wiley E. Coyote. "They a different species, or just on the other side of a political argument?"

"I do not know the words 'species' or 'political,'" Evanon said politely.

"Oh. Well, politics, that's basically a big argument about how to plan for the future. Anytime you got two humans in a room, they got at least three sets of politics there too. And a 'species' is any group of organics that can have babies together...whose babies can have babies together."

A hasty internet search of the word "mule" was responsible for the last phrase of this explanation. But Evanon knit his brows together, and said, carefully, "The Seelie and Unseelie are a single species, then. Are human men a different species than human women?"

"'S true they can have babies together, but I've heard the NEST guys say the women aren't a few times," Ironhide said truthfully. "The women, I've heard them say the men aren't the same species once or twice, too. I think you might get a better explanation from Diarwen than from me on that one. She's been around 'em longer, and understands 'em better."

"I see."

Ironhide didn't think so; the kid was radiating puzzlement. But Diarwen was the best one to help him sort it out. Optimus' 2iC wondered briefly about downloading Sidhe to better talk to the kid, and then remembered that there was no such thing as a download of Sidhe. Yet, anyway. He'd talk to Diarwen about making one...

"There are occasional Seelie with Unseelie fathers. Though...the warriors of the Seelie Court do not claim captor's rights...and Lady Morithel expressly forbids it to the warriors under her command. Prince Jaelin, though..."

Ironhide's engine let out a low rumbling growl, which he stifled before he scared Annabelle, or the much more perceptive Evanon. "Yeah, well, the 'Cons had their idea of 'captor's rights' too. That is, when they didn't think me or the Prime'd find out about it. Or worse yet, Jazz."

"The Seelie, too, saw captors' rights as a matter of honor, but they have no access to the Underhill."

Ironhide replied, "Huh. There wasn't much of anywhere Jazz or Mirage didn't have access to, not on Cybertron anyway, not if they were mad enough. Never frag off a scout bad enough to want you offlined."

Evanon nodded solemnly. He knew that to be wise advice, and had had the terms "frag" and "offlined" explained to him the previous day by Diarwen, thanks to Sideswipe's mouth. Though Sides was not entirely to blame; he had been unaware of Evanon's presence.

"C'mon," Ironhide said, climbing to his peds, one hand around Annabelle to prevent her from falling. "Time we got back."

"Hide Hide Hide Hide!" the little girl screamed joyfully, as he airplaned her, sitting on his palm, to the ground, and transformed. He could now extrude a child's car seat at will, and so Evanon had no more to do than lift a laughing Annabelle into it, and fasten her safely inside.

Ironhide popped the driver's side door when he finished, and Evanon, who had been going to walk around to the passenger side, stopped dead in his tracks. "I may ride in this seat?"

"Yeah. You're about the age humans learn to drive at, so I thought I'd teach ya some stuff."

_I must be as crazy as a miner on homebrew to do this._

The kid's fields were his reward, though. Bright as rainbows, and coruscating.

Of course, this was only the second day Evanon had been allowed to leave the medbay. Yesterday, he had met Ironhide, Chromia, Sideswipe, the Tiny Trine, and Barricade. Today he would meet more of the base population. They were a transitional set of acquaintances for the boy, but better that, Ironhide thought, than total isolation.

Yeah, the kid had a rough time ahead of him, the black mech thought. He started his "engine."

"Look. I drive myself, y'know that. But I was thinkin' that maybe you could learn how to point a car the way you want it to go from me. It's a good skill to have."

"You would do that for me?" the boy said, such awe and respect in his voice that Ironhide saved that clip immediately.

"Yep. You were an awful lot of help this morning when Annabelle needed help with her shoelaces, and I ain't forgot that."

"I was sometimes allowed to care for other changelings," the boy said.

"Well," the black mech said, "this's my way of sayin' thank you, I guess. Your seat belt on?"

He knew it wasn't, of course, but the boy fixed that immediately. "Okay," he said. "Put your hands on the wheel, straight across from one another." Nine-and-three, the humans called it, which was somehow better than ten-and-two, though Ironhide couldn't say why. They both added up to twelve, after all.

And so, erratically at first, they made their way back toward base. Evanon was sweating heavily by the time they got within sight of it. And Annabelle had mostly contributed, "Go faster!" to the conversation.

The clouds which had been far away early in the day were now lowering directly above their landscape. In the east, where they came from, their bottom edges trailed a brush of falling rain over the landscape; that rain was coming closer.

"This's what's called a dry wash or a 'wadi,'" Hide said, dropping a front wheel over its edge. "Pretty rough terrain, lotta boulders left by flash floods. You'll find my wheel bounces around a lot because o'that. Let's see if you can get me to that big cactus, just over by far the edge of the wadi."

Anyone who had lived a long time in the southwest would have told them that, in light of the clouds overhead, this was a very bad decision. But neither Evanon nor Ironhide had been in the desert long, and they had no source of outside advice.

"Very well," Evanon said. For somebody who hadn't sat behind the wheel of a car ever before in his life, Ironhide thought, the kid was doing pretty well. But the boy said, "What is a flash flood?" and Ironhide had to get back on the internet to answer that.

That distraction meant he wasn't paying the attention he perhaps should have been. Evanon was a careful driver, so far as Ironhide could judge. But Hide went where Evanon pointed him, his attention on the Wikipedia entry for "Flash flood," and put his weight on a front tire: whereupon the rotten chaparral which had provided a frail bridge between two largish boulders collapsed. His front wheel went down into the gap, splinters of chaparral showering down with it, and he broke a small, but important strut: diagonally opposite the one which had given him trouble for vorn, but no less important.

"Fraggit!" he said, once everyone had lurched to a stop. "Everybody okay?"

Annabelle answered, with delight, "Do it again, Hidey-hide!" But no one took her seriously.

"I too am 'okay," Evanon said. "These seat belts–I would not have been without them, I do not believe."

"Yeah. Well, let's see if I can get m'self outta this. Might need your help, Evanon." He paused, and Evanon might, were he a little more familiar with Cybertronian emotions, have heard a tinge of embarrassment in Ironhide's vocalizer. "There's a shovel in my bed."

He freed Annabelle of her carseat, and the little girl began to tell him (and herself) a story about Barbie and Ironhide, which she illustrated with action figures.

Fifteen minutes of Evanon's hard labor later, Ironhide's wheel was still well and truly stuck, dangling from an overstretched cable that fed through a damaged strut. And the sky had darkened from a cheery blue to a hot, close grayish-ecru, which blocked the sun but not its infrared radiation. Ironhide's cab began to heat. He cooled the interior for Annabelle, which raised his own operating temperature.

He didn't think to monitor the CB traffic, or he'd have heard about the flash floods in the up-lying areas from the base.

Evanon, meanwhile, had not given up. He was carefully excavating a hole for a boulder too large for him to move. When he got it wide enough, he thought, he would undercut the boulder, and it would roll forward–

A roar, muted, rumbling, impinged upon the boy's consciousness. He stood up from his task, and found that the clouds had gotten grayer and heavier in the east, with thick trails of darkness sweeping down from them.

He had been raised underground. He didn't know rain when he saw it.

Therefore he bent back to his work, but the rumbling grew louder. A few shovelfuls later, he stood, and saw what looked like a tiny, moving line of darkness perhaps a half-mile away. As it came closer, he realized that this was water, or at least fluid: but why was it dark brown? And what were those sticks and things doing poking out of it?

Ironhide popped his driver's side door. "Get in, Evanon," he said, urgently. "The rain's been fallin' up in the mountains, and since there's no plants to drink it an' no soft soil to absorb it, it's all comin' straight for us. Annabelle, back in your seat, please."

Evanon placed the shovel carefully back in Ironhide's bed, and did as he was bid; Annabelle obeyed the tone of Ironhide's voice where she might have argued with the command itself. Their seat restraints snapped tight around them, which startled Evanon considerably.

Ironhide rocked when the first six inches hit his tires. This was less water than a moving slurry of mud and small sticks, and it made taticky-tatick noises above its sibilant rush by his tires.

Ironhide by that time had pinged base and explained his situation, and his companions'. Sideswipe had been on the desk, and had received his call unemotionally, but now the frontliner said, "Ratchet, Prime, Killstrike and his boys, and Chromia are all on their way. You'll stay on the line with me, 'Hide. Prime's called for a CH-53 from Nellis. What's goin' on out there?"

At that moment, Chromia threw a helmet to Diarwen, who had abandoned a quarter-full shopping cart in mid-aisle, and transformed before they peeled out of the PX parking lot, Chromia's tires squealing until she abruptly went off-road. Prime transformed from root to alt and raised an impressive rooster tail of dust on his way cross-country to the wash; Killstrike's team angled in from the area of the base they'd been working on.

Ironhide said to Evanon, as the water rose to nine inches, "You get out and take Annabelle with you!"

And Evanon, who had more experience with rushing water than the Cybertronian, said politely, "The sides of the wadi are too steep to climb, the water is rushing too fast, and I will not leave you." Ironhide's fuel pump warmed slightly at this pronouncement.

Three minutes later, Will and Sarah Lennox were picked up at their quarters by Ratchet and told to strap themselves in tightly because he wasn't wasting any time on his way to their daughter. They held hands as the desert sped by his windows.

Sarah felt as if unimportant organs had been jostled loose from her body, and left somewhere on the way; she was hollow inside. Will stared intensely through the medic's windshield, stiff as a board.

Ratchet attempted twice to initiate conversation, but got no response either time; he added "too worried to respond politely" to his file of "Noted Human Behaviors," and didn't make a third attempt.

Chromia hit a wash so hard that Diarwen clutched at the handlebars. "Sorry!" she shouted, but Chromia did not slacken speed, in fact increased it.

Prime skidded to a halt first, coming to rest at an angle to the wash and transforming, running a few steps to get rid of the last of his kinetic energy. By that time, the water had risen halfway up Hide's door panels, and was carrying debris considerably larger than the small sticks and dirt the lower level of water had borne to him.

Hide bore a dozen dents before Chromia slid to a halt in pouring rain and transformed as Diarwen jumped off, just ahead of Ratchet, Will, and Sarah. Killstrike, Burnout, and the tractor-alt gestalt stopped a bit north of them, but Diarwen shouted above the noise of the river, that muted, thunderous roaring, "Hi! Tell them to get back! The bank is undercut!"

Quickshot wasn't quite fast enough. The sandy bank broke like peanut brittle, and his front wheels dropped into the water. Jackknife transformed, and pulled his brother from water so brown and filled with sludge that it was like a river of chocolate pudding thickened with pretzel sticks.

Out in the stream, a downed tree hit Ironhide in the tailgate with a "Thoooom!" and inflicted several long scratches on his side as it was pushed past him by the inexorable water. Its level was now above his bed. He had sealed the passenger compartment, and all his electrical components, some minutes previously.

Behind him, the wall of water became a little deeper where it met the resistance he offered. He was neither quite parallel to nor quite at ninety degrees from the flood; a standing wave formed upstream of him, and the level rose above his tailgate there.

But only there. His bed flooded, which actually served to weight him; for the first time since the water had risen above his wheel wells, he felt as If he might not be swept helplessly downstream, to tumble in the raging waters.

Ironhide rumbled, "Wonder if I've got enough air in here for the two of you if I have to seal up all the way."

Evanon cast a quick, measuring glance around him, and answered from a lifetime's experience of living underground. "I do not know your time units. And it will be longer if Annabelle does not cry."

"'M not a _baby_," Annabelle said stoutly.

"No, you aren't," Ironhide said, knowing as he did that if this urgent point were not acknowledged it would be repeated. "More than a quarter of a day? A 'day' is the time from sunrise to sunrise. A flash flood don't usually last more'n a joor, a quarter of a day."

"Less than that," Evanon said. "Divide the quarter-day into three parts. We have enough air for two of them."

Not enough air, then, or too much time. And the water didn't seem to be dropping. Ironhide hoped he wouldn't be completely submerged—so far, so good.

Optimus attempted to wade out to his foster-father. But the flash flood had grown in depth, speed, and strength since Evanon refused to try to ford it. It was now too much even for the Prime; he lost his balance twice before he came back to shore, badly dented along one side.

Two more uprooted trees struck Ironhide, who visibly shuddered with each impact. One left a dent in the door opposite Annabelle.

Diarwen looked at Will and Sarah, then away. She could not bear to watch, and she would not describe their expressions, even to herself.

And Chromia…Optimus held one of her servos, but the other flexed and flexed. "I can't get to him," she said.

"No, I know. If I could not, neither can you, not even in your jet-ski alt. But help is on the way."

Jazz, Mikaela, and Chip arrived. "Jeez," Chip said.

Diarwen said to Optimus, "Could the tractors pull him out of the river?"

"No," he replied. "He is injured. Another strut. It will not hold."

She thought for a moment. "When the CH-53 gets here, I can fast-rope to Hide and get hooks set."

"With you sitting on his hood?"

"I do not see why not!" After all, while airborne, she wouldn't be shut up into a metal box _miles_ above the ground.

Jazz said, in a very careful tone of voice, "Actually, th' chopper's comin'."

Sarah Lennox said in a very shaky voice, "Oh."

The bots had heard it first: even for them, the thup-thup of the chopper was barely audible over the river. A rope snaked down, and Diarwen sprang for it. Quickly, before she could realize she had signed up to go _flying._

She would later be very glad that Bobby Epps had had a hand in planning emergency services for the base. Because of Bobby's involvement, the crew of the CH-53 knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what she had to do (although, being human and Army, as well as new to NEST, they did waste three minutes arguing with her about being allowed to share the fun until Lennox snapped at them all to shut up and get to work). She geared up, and dropped back down to Ironhide, three-tenths of a second she was going to remember as long as she lived. With Evanon's help, she placed heavy hooks around his door posts.

She was winched back up into the helo as the chains thrummed tight.

But while Ironhide was free of the hole his wheel had dropped into, thanks to Evanon, the weight of the water in his bed was more than the chopper could lift. He began to stand on his rear wheels, understood what the problem was, and popped his tailgate.

The chopper leapt into the air, there was a noise like the giant from "Jack in the Beanstalk" reaching the very bottom of his fifty-two gallon Slurpee, and some very interesting eddies formed as Ironhide was pulled free of the river. Wheeljack saved the video clip; hydraulics was, to him, a new study.

Sarah Lennox was caught and held up by her husband as she went limp and wobbly against him, though Will's own knees were none too steady. Chromia too was held tightly against Prime's side; Optimus' anxious optics were on the CH-53.

Streaming water, Hide was put down as gently as a baby's kiss at a safe distance from the edge of the freshet, now slackened visibly from its greatest depth.

His front wheel gave just as Ironhide popped his doors, and Diarwen, the Lennoxes, Parker, and Ratchet all rushed him.

Evanon nodded to Diarwen, and went to Hide's back seat, picking up Barbie and Ironhide's smaller self to return to Annabelle, who was clinging to her mother's shoulder and weeping, but turned to grab her preciouses, and handed Ironhide to Will before latching on to each parent with an arm, and renewing her sobs.

Diarwen went to the boy, and took him by a shoulder. "You are uninjured?" she said.

He bowed his head. "Yes, my lady."

"I think, Evanon," she said thoughtfully, "that if you return her dolls to Annabelle after such a fright as that, I shall indeed take you into my service."

Optimus, Ratchet, and Killstrike were carefully picking Ironhide up, to place him inside Optimus' trailer for the ride back to base. But the black mech called, "Sorry, Diarwen, too late! He's comin' to live with Chromia and me."

And the sun coming up behind the boy's eyes told the Sidhe all she needed to know about that. She nodded, her eyes still on Evanon's. "I shall cede my claim. Morithel, I think, would understand."

Ironhide settled inside his trailer, with Ratchet and Chromia in attendance, Optimus transformed, and popped his doors; both his doors. If Evanon was to be his foster-brother, he wanted to know the boy as well.

And Diarwen, of course, was welcome always in his cab. The caravan formed up, and returned to base.

They pulled up to medbay to find Joe Treadwell bristling at its entrance. "That Unseelie kid is out and about without shackles and a guard? I protest!"

Ironhide, being moved into medbay, said flatly, "He was with me the entire time, Assistant Director, and when he had the chance to cause trouble, he didn't take it. In fact, he helped me with Annabelle, when she needed somethin' my servos ain't made for. You gotta problem with that?"

Treadwell spun on Lennox. "You allowed _your daughter_ out with that …"

"Assistant Director," Lennox said, his voice and his eyes both steel, "that will do."

Said daughter was clinging to her father with both arms and both legs, wide blue eyes on Treadwell. A thumb stole into her mouth.

Sara wanted to giggle; when Will became Commanding Officer she…responded. (Chromia cocked an eyebrow at her, and grinned. _Great_, Sara thought. _The whole base knows?_ Well, yes, if they thought about it, and cared. But Chromia didn't gossip. And, Sara thought, it took one to know one.)

Optimus said only, "Should Evanon deliberately cause injury or harm to any person, human, Sidhe, or Cybertronian, on this base, we will deal with it, Director. That will include calling in your agency _if I feel it is necessary_. Should it become so, you will know immediately."

"With respect, Prime, Colonel Lennox, that won't do. Any Unseelie, anywhere, is a danger to all the humans around him." Treadwell's gaze fell on Diarwen. "Or her."

Before Diarwen had time to take offense, Optimus said firmly, "Mr. Treadwell, that is _beyond _enough. Diarwen has proven her allegiance to us many times over. And as Ironhide and Chromia have now claimed Evanon as kin, his supervision is also not your concern."

Treadwell, to whom Chromia had lent an audial a time or two, gave her a martyred look, and crossed his arms. "I see. I hope I'm wrong, Prime. But you cannot now say I didn't freakin' warn you."

"No," Prime said. "We can't say that."

Ratchet clapped a servo on Killstrike's shoulder, and together, they pushed the gurney bearing Ironhide into sick bay, Chromia and Evanon following.

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Arcee removed Carly's laundry bag from her subspace and ducked through the back door of the human's apartment to put the bag on a kitchen chair. Carly thanked her with a smile and began to sort the clothing into a pile that needed to be ironed, and others that could be simply shaken out, folded and put away.

Arcee watched what she was doing for a while, then began to help. It was easier for her to do the sheets, anyway—they were just a bit too big for one human to easily manage alone, but the cycleformer could fold them as easily as the towels. She left the tiny things like washcloths for Carly.

Carly said, "Sam is getting very nervous about you giving me rides."

"I would _not_ drop you!"

Carly grinned. "I know, and I'm very experienced at riding _non_-intelligent motorcycles, so I'm certainly not going to fall off your alt form. But he had a dream that I fell somehow and...lost the baby. It scared him awfully, and since then he's been a mother hen about anything that could possibly cause me to slip or fall. He even got in the bathroom and put these little stickers all over the bottom of the tub so that no one could possibly slip in there."

"You are carrying his sparkling. Of course he's over-protective. These...nightmares...must be terrifying. It's bad enough to relive something that actually happened, but experiencing all these things that never happened and in many cases could never happen—what is the purpose?"

Carly folded a T-shirt of Sam's and smiled at it, patting it into order. "I don't think anyone knows for certain. The brain and the mind are very complicated systems. We don't completely understand how they work. I've always heard that dreams are the mind's way of dealing with anxieties and memories. But according to Diarwen, dreams can be prophetic. That wasn't something I really believed in before. And I'm not sure I do now, completely. I mean, if people can predict the future, why don't they predict winning lottery numbers? Or the next company that's going to come out of nowhere and make a fortune, so they can buy stock while it's cheap? But then, at the same time, there is just too much evidence to discount it completely, either."

Arcee frowned at a towel, and twitched its corners straight. "If you like, I could get one of the others with a quad-wheel alt to drive you around. Sam carried the energy of the All-Spark for two years. I don't think it's reasonable to assume that someone could be touched by the Divine like that and come away from it unchanged. It may have just been a troubling dream, but why take chances? I suppose if I hit something, or if someone hit me, you could be thrown off, no matter how careful we both are. He was specific that the accident he saw was a fall of some sort?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, let's do everything we can to minimize the chances of that happening. Don't climb, and don't get near the edge of anything, and watch your step. That would seem to be a matter of common sense."

Carly nodded.

Arcee ordered Brains and Wheelie, "You two make sure you stay away from Carly's peds, do you hear me? It could be very dangerous if she tripped over you."

Both of the little bots nodded emphatically. Wheelie especially had been known to trip people as a prank, but Arcee was sure that now that they knew it could be harmful to her, the minibots wouldn't engage in their favorite pastime.

Wheelie climbed to the tabletop and started to roll the washcloths neatly so that more of them would fit into the drawer, while Brains matched the socks and cuffed each pair together.

Carly put the kettle on and they watched TV for a while before she started her ironing. With the sun on the other side of the house, the living room was fairly comfortable, but wouldn't stay that way long with an iron in the equation. And she was too tired to face that hot job just yet.

Suddenly her eyes flew open and she nearly jumped straight up in the air. "Oh, my God!" She shrieked for joy.

"Carly? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong! My baby moved!"

Reverently, Wheelie said, "You can tell, already? But it isn't very big yet, is it?"

Carly smiled and held up her hand, tracing a finger across her palm. "It's about three or four inches long. It's actually been active for a few weeks now, but it's only now got big enough for me to feel the movement. According to the pregnancy site online that I use, it has facial expressions and can even suck its thumb."

"Wow, they're just like hatchlings...only they don't actually, y'know, _hatch._"

Brains said, "Yes, you provide all the raw materials for your fetus to grow, in much the same way that a carrying seeker's nanites construct a new spark's protoform and shell, and stock it with everything the hatchling will need to continue to develop until time for it to hatch. I don't understand how organics can be so different from mecha, but still be so much the same."

Carly said, "There's a principle in engineering that form follows function. What I mean by that is, there are usually only a few optimal solutions for any design problem. No matter what process is used, whether in our case it's evolution encouraging the most efficient designs to replicate, or in yours, someone choosing the best option among several designs, then refining it over successive models, eventually the most efficient form will be the most successful. If we had a race of intelligent birds here on Earth, they'd probably be even more similar to seekers than humans are, since they'd encounter more of the same environmental conditions than we grounders do."

Wheelie rocked backwards and almost fell off the table. "Is that what _Til All Are One_ means?"

Arcee steadied the young minibot and said, "That's a big part of it, Wheelie. We're all alive in the Universe, and we're all more alike than we are different."

"So why do we have to fight?"

Arcee looked around the table, over the steadily diminishing pile of laundry. She did not think of herself as old, but all three of her companions were so _very_ young. "Because some people will always make choices that don't care about hurting others, for whatever reason. That's why there's evil in the universe—because individuals choose it, whether that's Unicron Himself, or just an ordinary mech who chooses selfishness over service. We chose the good, and we fight because we have to do what we can to protect people who can't defend themselves from that evil."

"Why doesn't Primus do something?"

"He did, youngling. He opposed His brother when the necessity arose. As for us, Primus gave us free will, and He lets us make our own choices. He gave us a conscience and a pair of servos. After that, it's up to us to get involved and do something."

Carly nodded. She wanted to call Sam and tell him about the baby kicking, but then she realized anything could be happening in the field. She shouldn't call him, and potentially distract him. It could wait until he called her tonight.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam Witwicky and Bobby Epps stood in the parking lot of the Mountainview Inn, apparently just two guys shooting the breeze. Sam leaned against the door of a sleek yellow 2007 Camaro, the window of which was down, and the radio was playing. A passerby would not have guessed that the Camaro was taking part in the conversation by means of music clips and sentences composed of sound clips strung together. Bumblebee felt rather smug over his ability to hide in very plain sight.

They were in the small northern California town of Sequoia Falls, because a pay-as-you-go cell phone found at the scene of a murder-suicide had last been used to call another cell phone in the town. Bumblebee hoped that he would be able to locate that phone if someone used it again. In the meanwhile, they were investigating the town, though they were beginning to wonder if they were on the trail of a wild goose.

Bobby looked around, taking in the scent of evergreens as he looked up at the rugged Klamath mountains surrounding the town. "Well, my man, I have to say if we're going to chase wild geese, this is a gorgeous place to do it. But I'm beginning to think whoever had that phone either threw it off a bridge, or moved on somewhere else.""

Sam considered that. "I dunno, Bobby, I just got a feeling there's more to find out here. Why don't we split up and wander down the main drag, go in the shops and ask a few questions? Bee, put up your holoform and drive around town, see if_ anything_ out of the ordinary shows up on your sensors. We'll meet back here in two hours and compare notes. If nothing's turned up by then-we can't exactly _move _here and hope someone calls out on that phone.""

Bobby agreed. "If we're still on square one by then, I don't know what else to do."

Bee played a quote from "Stripes."" "That's a fact, Jack!""

"I want the side with that glass shop, there's bound to be something in there that will make Carly forgive me for wasting three days in this burg."

Bobby said, ""OK! Let's do this!""

The three of them split up. Sam wasn't sure what to ask since he didn't know what he was looking for, so he decided just to hope he'd recognize anything important when he saw it, and to err on the side of paranoia. Caution wouldn't do as a boundary marker for this project.

A trail outfitter and a shoe store rang no bells. He went in the glass shop and browsed the shelves of knickknacks for something cute to give to Carly. A shelf of glass flowers were cute, but none jumped out at him.

Then he saw a little sculpture of a mountain lion mother with her cub.

An elderly lady came out from behind the counter. "Can I help you with something, sonny?"

"How do they get all these colors in the glass? That's beautiful!""

"It's a technique called lampwork. My daughter makes these.""

"May I have this one?"

"Certainly, let me wrap it up for you. That will be sixty-five dollars, plus tax."

Sam got out his wallet and located his credit card. ""Here you are, ma'am."

"Thanks. What brings you to Sequoia Falls?"

"Oh, I'm here on business. It's a really nice little town. There seems to be a lot going on here."

"Well, Westmoreland Genetics has brought a lot of money into the town," the lady explained. "Before they brought some good jobs here, about all we had were the hunters and hikers who came through. Now, enough out-of-towners come in to keep all these little shops open."

"Is that the big building with that huge fence around it? What do they do up there, do you know?"

"Not exactly. I know they hire a lot of scientists. I think it's DNA tests and things. You know, like on the crime lab shows on TV."

Sam accepted a well-padded box containing the glass statuette. "Wow, they must do a lot of them, as big as that place is. I'll bet a lot of people work there."

"Sure do. It's the county's biggest employer. Good jobs, too."

"I guess in this economy, that's pretty lucky."

The saleslady smiled. "Yes, it is. That's about all I know about it, though. Thanks for your business, and enjoy your stay."

"You're welcome."

Outside the shop, Sam decided to take some pictures on his phone. From there, the town's main street sloped steeply to the banks of a fast-flowing river. A group of tired hikers trudged up the hill on the other side of the street, laboring under their heavy backpacks and leaning on their walking sticks.

He passed a law office and a tee-shirt shop. This place had baby things, he ended up buying a sackful of things from it, including the obligatory "My dad went to Sequoia Falls and all I got was this lousy tee shirt"...shirt.

Next door was the gallery associated with the artists' colony that they had passed on the way into town. Sam went inside and browsed until a young man with a long brown ponytail sticking out from under an Army-surplus boonie hat came over. "Anything I can help you with, dude?"

"Just looking." He indicated a painting of an old man sitting on the stoop of a brownstone building. "I don't know much about art, but this looks pretty good."

"Thanks. I was running for my life to get under cover in Shytown, when I saw this old geezer just sittin' on his stoop like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I went over and grabbed him by the hand and dragged him down into the basement apartment—there was these two old ladies in there, they didn't want to let us in. I had to kick the door in. Not ten seconds later, the whole fuckin' building across the street goes KA-BOOM. If we'd still been out on the street we'd have both been dead. Later these kids ran in. By the time it was all over with and the Army evacuated us, there must have been twenty-five people hiding in that basement."

"Yeah, a lot of people survived by hiding in basements. You were lucky you didn't hesitate to kick those people's door in."

"I figured being in jail for breaking and entering was better than being dead!"

"How'd you get all the way out here?"

"Always wanted to come. Then after I survived, I figured, why not? Might not be so lucky the next time, I should live while I'm here. So I hitched a ride and here I am. You on vacation?"

"Business."

"Yeah, we get a lot of that. All kinds of people have business with Westmoreland."

"Mine's...something else. But I keep hearing about that place. Weird, huh? That big fence around it and everything?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean, and most of the locals start scowling when you ask too many questions about it. But I saw online where they do this, like, genetic compatibility testing for people who are planning to have kids. You know, to see if they're going to pass on some kind of diseases or anything."

Sam gulped, thinking about everything he had been exposed to, up to and including the energy of the All-Spark. And dying and coming back to life—he suspected that could screw with your DNA, big time. And then there was asbestos and whatever else from Chicago.

"You OK?"

Sam shoved the cold knot of terror into a dark closet in the back of his mind. "Yeah, man. I wonder why they need that fence for a medical place?"

"I don't know, I guess they got stuff in there people might steal."

Sam contemplated a couple of other paintings that were also the same young man's work, but the price he had on them was too rich for Sam's blood. He thanked the man and continued on.

When the three of them rendezvoused, Bee reported having picked up a very brief signal from the phone, but it had ended before he could get a second directional signal on it in order to triangulate its position. All he knew was that it had come from the direction of Westmoreland Genetics.

Bobby said, "Our guy has to be working in there. Out of the way little town like this? It's the perfect place for a guy with a shady past to end up."

Sam nodded. "Getting in there, though..."

"You need evidence to get a search warrant, but you need a search warrant to get evidence," the sergeant replied. "Classic catch-22."

Bumblebee whistled. _He_ didn't need a search warrant to run a scan from the road. At least, no one had yet told him that he needed a warrant to do so. His human partners climbed in, and he drove up past the laboratory compound.

The scout's scans revealed nothing incriminating, but as the three of them looked up at the forbidding bunker-like buildings, Sam wasn't the only one getting the heebie-jeebies. Epps vocalized it: "That just don't look right."

Sam said, "I have an idea. Bee, take a bunch of pictures, then let's get back to the motel."

If Bee had been in root mode, he would have shrugged. Instead, he did as his Guarded asked, then drove back to the motel. Sam asked him to upload the pictures to a folder that they shared. When Sam got back to their room, he wrote a quick email and attached a link to the pictures.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jarrell Rhodes found a quiet place in the shade of a large rock formation, and spread out a tatami mat. He removed his shirt and tied a hachimaki around his head. Near the mat, he laid a manila folder, weighted down with a bottle of water. He sat seiza for a while, breathing deeply and sinking into a meditative state. After a while, at some signal known only to him, the ex-CIA agent drew his nunchaku and launched into a series of maneuvers, a kata passed down from parent to child in Okinawa for generations. He had not been born to the tradition—in fact he had never been able to trace his ancestry past the Charleston, South Carolina slave markets of the 1700s. But there were those who said his Japanese was better than his English.

Jarrell preferred to let his skill speak for itself.

His fascination with Japan had begun when, as a kid just out of high school in the mid-90's, he had served a tour there in the Army.

Jarrell had hoped to be stationed there longer, but a few days after his unit had been asked to examine some photographs and write down everything they could think of about them, he had been brought back to Washington and given a lot more tests. When he recognized the Zener cards, he'd realized something was up.

He'd been transferred to Army Intelligence, and when his hitch was up, he'd been offered a position as a CIA data analyst. His real job was reading images. After the CIA, he had moved to S11.

Jarrell had learned that meditation, both traditional Zen techniques and the focus of the kata, helped him reach a state where he could tap into his abilities most easily. By the time he finished the katas, he was drenched with sweat, but ready.

He took up the folder and removed the first of a series of 8x10 photos. It showed a street of tourist traps in a town his knowledge of tree types and mountain ranges immediately identified as located in the coastal Pacific Northwest. Knowing that, he could tell which way was north, and judge from the shadows approximately what time of day the photo had been taken.

Those were details that any trained photo analyst could have determined. Jarrell's talent went deeper. He tapped into the energy of the place, and immediately picked up on hidden currents under the little town's peaceful exterior. This was a place of subterfuge, of circles within circles—something deeper and more sinister than the usual small-town politics.

The next image was of a forbidding gray building behind a tall fence topped with several strands of barbed wire. He thought for a moment that it was a prison, but then he noted a sign on the gate which said "Employee entrance—vendors and deliveries, please use Gate B. All others, please use main entrance."

He shivered in spite of the ninety-degree temperatures, and let himself sink fully into the reading.

Cold air, blowing from a vent somewhere behind him. The scent of antiseptic. Confinement; pain, incredible emotional pain, part of which was caused by careful and dispassionate observation of the subject's fright, far beyond the normal child's fright at "getting a shot," at the sight of a syringe in a caregiver's hand…but the comfort needed was not offered, which caused more pain.

Self-preservation threw him out of the vision and back to the real world with a tremendous thump. Jarrell drew a couple of deep breaths to center himself and drank the bottle of water. He gathered the pictures and put his shirt back on, stuffed the headband into his pocket, and put the nunchaku back in his belt.

Something very bad was happening in that building. The sense of wrongness stayed with him even after he grounded himself.

He ran at a faster-than-marathon pace back to base to report in.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

That evening, back at the motel, a conference videocall over a secure Autobot connection linked Sam and Bobby from Sam's hardened laptop, Bumblebee over an internal connection, and Lennox, Dr. Hunt and Jarrell Rhodes using a comms station back at Mission City.

Sam reported, "The biggest company in this town is an outfit called Westmoreland Genetics. That has to be where Helix is hiding out. It just _has _to be."

Bee added, "I picked up a very short signal from that phone which could have come from the Westmoreland Genetics property. It was gone before I could triangulate."

Everyone else but Sam did a double-take—the bots were used to still being able to hear Bee's natural voice over comms or clan bonds, but most of the humans were more accustomed to his sound clips. Only Sam commonly spoke with his Guardian over the phone and knew what his voice sounded like.

Jarrell said, "Sam, I pulled a reading on those photos that you sent me. There's definitely something going on there, and it isn't just the 'Harper Valley PTA' stuff you'd expect from a small town. That big building that looks like a jail, with the barbed wire on top of the fence? That's the center of it, and something's wrong in there. I don't know what they're doing—it could be illegal animal experimentation, or something like that, I don't know for sure. I felt confined, like a cage, the room was cold, there was a lot of emotional pain, and I could smell antiseptic really strong. I couldn't stay in the vision."

Hunt, the director of S11, added, "And this is from the guy who reads crime scene photos. You need to find out what they're doing in that building—whether it's connected with Helix or not, if Jarrell says something awful is going on in there, you need to either stop it or report it to someone who will."

Jarrell said, "I won't be able to get anything else for a while. Do you want me to get Adele Hempstead or Diarwen to try?"

Bobby said, "That's probably not a bad idea. We'll go back out there ourselves tonight and check it out again. Let's see if they're running three shifts, or if the place is quiet at night."

Lennox cautioned, "This isn't Iraq, Bobby, you can't just infiltrate the place without a warrant."

Hunt said, "The Colonel is absolutely right. Knowing psychically that there's a bad situation isn't enough reason in a court of law to go snooping around. You need exigent circumstances to go in without a warrant."

Sam asked, "What's exagant...?"

Lennox said, "Exigent. It means, you can bust in if you smell gas, or like when you saw the people lying there shot in Florida. It has to be a life-or-death emergency before you're allowed to kick a door in."

"Oh, OK. Jarrell, is that what you think this is?"

He hesitated. "It's something small and helpless, Sam. They could be experimenting on rabbits for all I know. But I'll tell you what I _want_ to do—fly out there, barge in and put a stop to whatever they're doing. It's like that. If this is a genetics place, they should be experimenting on DNA samples in test tubes, right? What are they doing with experimental subjects in the first place?"

Hunt said, "I don't know, Jarrell. Colonel Lennox, why don't you run all this by Dr. Collins from S8? He'd know exactly what should be in a genetics lab."

Lennox nodded; he would do just that. He was sorry that Sam and Bobby had stumbled into something bad out there, but he was very pleased with the way the sectors were starting to work together and call on each other's skills. "In the meanwhile, I'll find out all I can about Westmoreland Genetics—who owns it and what kind of business they do in there."

Sam said, "Thanks, Colonel."

"Anything else to report or discuss?"

Bobby said, "Not at this time, sir."

"Be careful out there, Epps."

"Yes, sir."

After the call ended, Bobby went outside and he and Sam called their wives. A few moments later, Bobby heard Sam's excited yell.

On the other end of the line, Mo laughed, having heard it too. "Carly felt the baby kick today. Sounds like she must have just told Sam about it."

Bobby grinned. "I remember when you wrote to me about D'andre kickin'. I don't think my feet touched the ground for three days. How are the little squirts?"

Mo reported, "Will's letting Rob try for his black belt in a tournament up in Vegas next weekend. He told me he's got a really good chance to get it. Jaisyn can't compete in this one, the doctor doesn't want her stressing her wrist for another couple of weeks. But her drawing made it into the school art show. Shaundra got in the beginner's band. They put the twins on separate soccer teams, and they aren't happy about having to compete against each other. I'm going to talk to the coaches about that tomorrow and find out why they were split up, and if there isn't a good reason for it I'll find out if there's any way they can be on the same team.

"Today, Skysong was reading a Cybertronian storybook to her brothers, and D'andre was listening, and it looked like he was actually following along with her datapad."

Bobby said thoughtfully, "Huh! He's never paid any attention to picture books before."

"I don't get it either but...call it mother's intuition, Bobby, but I know something important just happened there. And I don't know what it was."

"We'll just have to watch him and see what happens if he does it again."

"Yeah. How are you guys doing?"

"OK. Pretty scenery out here. It's kind of a nice little town."

"I miss you."

"I miss you too, baby. I want to come home."

"Finish up what you're doing out there, and come on back," she said, making the words a prayer. "I love you, Bobby. You stay safe, and look out for Sam."

"I will," he said. "I love you too. Kiss the kids for me."

He put his phone in his pocket, and blamed suddenly-blurry eyesight on the early evening sun shining in his eyes

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Late that evening, the two men climbed up a hillside on the far side of the Westmoreland Genetics compound from the road. Bee was in root mode, right behind them, and if Sam hadn't believed Bee about being a scout, he would have after seeing the small bot's expertise at using the cover of the trees to avoid being spotted, and moving quietly through the brush as easily as Bobby did. Sam was the one who was afraid of stepping on a branch and making noise to give them away.

The humans had low-light binoculars, and Bee easily adjusted his optics for the conditions.

Bobby stopped short of the fence and signaled Bee to halt. He and Sam squatted in the brush and observed the Westmoreland complex.

It was less busy at night than during the day, but from the number of cars there were still several employees on-site. Unless they had a lot more security guards than they could see from where they were, that didn't explain all the vehicles in the lot. Lights on here and there indicated people working the late shift. Neither of them had any idea if that was normal for this type of business.

Just before they'd left the motel, Lennox had got back to them with some information on Westmoreland. Apparently the company had made itself indispensable to a number of agencies and organizations, as well as providing services to private individuals. Police departments all over the country who could not afford their own labs contracted with Westmoreland Genetics. Even larger cities' laboratories farmed out testing to them that would be too expensive to perform on-site. Hospitals of every size sent rarely needed tests their way when it was cheaper to contract the work out than to purchase the equipment to do the testing themselves. And as Sam had discovered, they provided testing services to couples contemplating having children. They had a repository for frozen embryos, as well as sperm and ova. They also did agricultural cloning—as well as cloning of pets.

Sam whispered, "Y'know...they're all set up to clone people."

Epps replied, "There've always been rumors about genetically-engineered cloned soldiers. Never saw any proof."

"I thought that was science fiction stuff, but if anyone was going to be able to do something like that, these guys _could_. If they wanted to break about a million laws."

Bobby nodded. He saw movement in a window, and trained his binoculars on it. A lab tech was carefully watering a row of small plants, making careful notes on a tablet computer as he did so.

Sam's attention was drawn upwards. He trained his binoculars on a top-story window, where a curtain was twitching.

A small face peered over the window sill and looked right at him.

"Oh, fuck!" he gasped in surprise.

"What?"

"Guys, look at that window, top story, fourth from the right—is that a little kid?"

Bee zoomed in while Bobby refocused his binoculars.

It was indeed a child, four or five years old, with large dark eyes and raven-black hair trimmed short. She seemed to be looking right at them for at least a whole minute, then she turned away and after a moment the light went out, casting the window into darkness.

Bee softly played a string of sound clips, "She's back at the window."

Bobby said, "No way a kid that little could know not to back-light herself..."

Sam said, "Maybe it isn't that. Maybe she just didn't want to get caught with the light on after bedtime."

"Maybe, but what's a kid that little doing in a place like this so late at night anyway? It isn't like it's a hospital."

"I know. Something doesn't feel right. We should get in there and find out what's going on."

Bobby said, "Wait a minute. Remember what the Colonel said. We can't just bust in there unless it's an emergency, and it doesn't look like she's in danger. We'll report up the chain that they've got a kid in there and find out the legal way what they're up to."

Unwillingly, Sam and Bee agreed. Kidnapping a child of kindergarten age was unlikely to be in her best interests, absent an immediate threat to her. Bee made the report to Jazz on a secure channel, then they settled in for their long night of a very boring stakeout.

End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam bit into a stale breakfast-bar donut and washed it down with milk. He would have preferred coffee, but badly needed a few hours' sleep, He didn't see the point of decaf; it tasted nothing like "real" coffee and had no side benefits. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed, on top of the quilt.

He was barely aware of Epps reporting in, and dragged himself back to wakefulness. "Y'need me on that call, Bobby?"

Apologetically, he said, "Fraid so, kid. It shouldn't take long."

Sam fumbled for his phone and logged in. It was all he could do to focus on the questions Lennox asked and answer as fully as he could.

Lennox told them both to get some sleep. While they happily did so, he reported the situation up the chain to Mearing. "Director, do you think that kid could be a genetic experiment?"

Mearing swore in several languages. "I'm afraid she's exactly that. We need more data before we can do anything."

"I'll let Epps and Witwicky get a few hours' sleep before I tell them to maintain surveillance."

"We need to get someone inside. I'll work on that from my end."

"Yes, sir."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam found himself in the same sort of very realistic dream that had terrified him about Carly falling and losing the baby. The thing about them was, he knew he was dreaming. He was powerless to wake up or affect what he was watching, but he knew it wasn't real.

This particular dream was outside the Westmoreland Genetics complex, not quite in the same place they'd been early tonight but still outside the fence. He was behind a man in a lab coat, who was having some sort of indefinite argument with another man. Mr. Lab Coat pulled a gun and shot the other man, then ran back into the complex.

Sam was rooted to the ground. With a supreme effort of will he forced his feet to move, until he could see the dead man's face.

It was Bobby Epps.

Sam woke with a yell, and a very much alive Epps rolled off the opposite bed and came up with his sidearm in his hands. "What the fuck? Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah—yeah. It was just another one of those damn dreams. Like the one I told you about where Carly fell? Jesus, it was so _real—!"_

Bobby put the safety back on the weapon and replaced it within easy reach. It was hardly the first time he'd been wakened from a sound sleep by a squadmate's nightmare. Everyone eventually was the cause of a commotion like that. "What was it about?"

"I don't want to talk about it—I don't want to _think_ about it!"

"Whatever it was, it was just a dream."

"Yeah. I know. I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Don't worry about it, it'll be me next time—a word of warning: don't try to shake me awake when it is. I've come up swinging before."

"Thanks for the heads up."

Sam lay back. He was still exhausted, but it was a long time before he could quiet his pounding heartbeat enough to try to go back to sleep. When he finally succeeded, the next thing he knew he was standing on sand in a landscape of wind-weathered rock spires that he knew very well. This was the world between the worlds where he had awakened after being killed in Egypt trying to get the Matrix to Optimus.

Since then, he had dreamed himself here a second time. Alpha Trion had been examining him. Sam didn't mind admitting he was terrified of that mech. The whole thing had led to a disagreement and then a shouting match between Alpha and Prima. Sam by now understood quite a bit of conversational Cybertronian, but not a word of that truly ancient dialect, which he could only recognize as related to the Language of the Primes. In the end, Prima had forbidden Alpha to interfere—with what, Sam didn't know, as the proscription was all the Original Prime had said in contemporary language. And then Sam had awakened in his Washington DC apartment.

This time, like the dreams about Bobby and Carly, he knew he was dreaming, but he had no idea how to wake up.

He could feel the sand under his feet, and when he scuffed the toe of his sneaker through it, it felt like kicking sand. Sam experimentally pinched himself. It felt like a pinch, but he was still dreaming.

Sam wondered if he should explore a bit or wait for something to happen. Both the other times he'd been here, the Ancient Primes been there too, but this time he didn't think anyone was around. And, as hard as it was for the Cybertronians he knew to hide, with Optimus the tallest at thirty-two feet, he didn't think these guys were hiding. The smallest of them made Optimus look short, and Sam felt like a peanut around them.

He decided there was no use standing there. If he was supposed to do something, he might be stuck in the dream until he did it, or starved in the real world.

Well, _that_ was unlikely. If Epps couldn't wake him up, he'd call the paramedics, and eventually Optimus would get involved, and fix it somehow. But Sam really didn't want to have to be rescued. It was embarrassing.

He started walking, and remembered something his college roommate Leo Spitz had said about always turning right in a maze so that you could find your way back to where you'd started. He hoped that he wouldn't end up going in circles, or that the twisting rock formations of his dreamscape wouldn't rearrange themselves as soon as his back was turned.

He wondered why the afterworld for a group of Cybertronians was a desert mountain range instead of an artificial planet like Cybertron, then he remembered Petra. This gateway was similar to the place that they had chosen for their sacrifice.

He heard heavy footsteps and headed towards the sound. Eventually, the narrow path that he was following opened up, and he saw one of the Ancient Primes ahead of him. This one, smaller and more slender than the others, wore strips of woven metal fabric around his shoulders and waist—clerical vestments—and had the glyph of Primus etched into his chestplate. This was Sigma.

Sam knelt respectfully. "Sigma Prime."

"Welcome, Samuel," Sigma replied. "What brings you here?"

Sigma gestured for Sam to rise, and he did so, running a little to keep up, while Sigma considerately slowed his pace for the human.

Sam replied, "I was hoping you'd be able to tell me that. I'm dreaming, and I don't know how to wake up."

"Ah. That happens to young projectors sometimes, when they have not had the proper training in controlling their talent."

"Wait, what? Projector?"

"You truly are a novice in this. Many people project themselves in their dreams, but they do not travel as far, and they return just as instinctively. Having carried the All-Spark energy, and having been here before, makes it very easy for you to reach this particular place, but it is a bit far for you to simply snap back at will without knowing how to do that. You would do so if you truly felt endangered, either here or where you are sleeping, or if something were to wake you unexpectedly. You are in no danger, and I can guide you back home whenever you like."

"That's good to know!"

"Samuel, something troubles you greatly. Will you sit with me, and tell me about it?"

Sam obeyed, and they sat in the sand beside the trail they had been following. "I had another dream before this one. Someone killed my friend. I don't think it was just a nightmare."

"You saw into a possible future. Your energy field is still resonating slightly to that timeline, you see."

"You mean, it might not happen?"

"It probably will not. You will not simply stand there and allow it to happen. A pity that you are unlikely to remember me telling you so, but you need much more practice before you will be able to carry the details of what happens here into the world of the living."

"I don't understand."

"I know that you do not," Sigma replied kindly. "It is all right. You are not expected to understand everything yet. Just focus on remembering that no prophecy is set in stone. There are always many possible futures."

"So the theories of multiverses are correct?"

"Yes, of course. You and I, like the vast majority of beings throughout all the universes, live in just one of them. And that is a very good thing, because we are not equipped to process the many strands of possibility and paradox that make up the entirety of creation. Most deities, on the other hand, are singularities. Primus is Primus, no matter the dimension. If you were to travel into one of these parallel worlds, and pray there, the same god, or gods, would hear your prayer."

"So, in some dimension, Bobby dies and there is nothing I can do to stop it."

"Unfortunately, that is so. In that universe, that is his destiny. But here, his destiny has not yet been fixed as immutable. Your gift is the ability to learn from that timeline and apply its lessons to this one. It is the same gift and burden that Alpha Trion carries, but you are not yet ready to learn from him."

Sam's relief at that must have showed, because Sigma laughed. "When the time comes, Samuel, you will find that he is a good spark, if a bit rough around the edges."

"I don't mean any disrespect, Prime, but I am afraid of him."

"He does have that effect on people, I'm afraid. He is good, yes, but not necessarily _nice._ Prima would never allow him to do you harm, and neither would the rest of us."

In college, Sam had had a professor or two like that. "How can I not get stuck here, if this happens again?"

"You would do better to say 'when,' not 'if'. You still bear a certain amount of the All-Spark's energy, Samuel. No one it touches ever remains unchanged by the experience. That energy is the direct gift of Primus Himself. This place is a gateway to the Well of All Sparks—the gateway to which you were drawn when you died, however briefly. Your very essence guides you here, and always will, as long as you do your best to travel a right path. As for avoiding getting 'stuck' here...there is no substitute for experience. And you will not be stuck, either you will waken naturally or one of us will see you home. Once you master the skill of projection within your own dimension, then you will have the building blocks to begin learning to control projection into other places. I think before that can happen, though, you will have to learn to do this while you are awake, and I do not know a way for you to carry such complicated instructions back with you. This place is not experienced by means of mortal senses."

"I know. When I wake, I won't have the concepts for it."

"No. None of us do. But when we are here, we understand, and make the proper choices to give us the tools to learn or to accomplish that which we desire in the mortal world."

"So, if I go back, what could I do that would start giving me building blocks?" Sam asked.

Sigma considered. "If I return you directly to your body, you will remember this only as a reassuring dream. But if I return you somewhere else, you will learn from the experience of finding your way back, and you will remember those lessons. Is there somewhere you would like to visit?"

"May I check on my wife?"

Sigma smiled. "Of course. Are you ready?"

"Yes, and no. There's a part of me that really wants to stay here a while and explore, but if I'm not going to remember it anyway...I do need to get a little real sleep."

"Very well then. Do not be frightened, I am going to mesh our energy fields lightly so that I will be able to take you with me when I project. It may feel strange to you at first, but it is perfectly safe."

Sam nodded. Sigma shuttered his optics and enfolded Sam in his fields. It was, as the Prime had warned, strange at first, but Sam felt a warm sense of safety and protection.

And then, they were flying. Sam watched Sigma's body recede below them, still sitting peacefully in the desert sand, while they rose up and shifted into the featureless white expanse that marked the border between this world and his own.

"Wait a minute, how do I know that you're the Sigma from my universe? Or that we're going back to the right one?"

"Does it truly matter where I came from? I am quite dead in your universe; it is no longer my own since we gave up our future lives here to safeguard the Matrix. The Well of All Sparks is our place now. And, as for making sure you reach the right place? A trace binds you to your sleeping body, I am simply following that. There are many other Samuels in many other universes, but none of them is _you. _You, like every other living being, are one of a kind in all of creation. That, my sparkling, is why every life is so precious."

"If people could only see that..."

"It is their choice to see what they see, and their choice as to how they interpret it," was Sigma's serene answer.

What Sam defined as "reality" faded into focus around them, like an image developing on a photograph. "Wait, that's the motel."

"Yes. Now, do you see the trace leading back to your body?"

"Oh! That thin streak of silver light? That's it?"

"Yes, exactly. Now, I want you to think about the place where your wife is. Visualize every detail that you can of the place that she is most likely to be found, and will yourself to be there. You must create a visualization of sufficient clarity for this to work, but once you do, travel will be nearly instantaneous. Now, wards would keep you out, but beyond that, you can pass through walls. I will help you this first time, but once you learn how, you will be able to practice this on your own. This is one of your Gifts."

"What do you mean, 'Gifts?'"

Sigma answered, maybe a little too smoothly, "From your time as carrier of the All-Spark, of course."

Sam nodded, and decided that he might as well be content with that, since Sigma was not going to say anything else about it. He focused on remembering the bedroom he shared with Carly on base, the cream-colored walls, the view of the airstrip outside their window, the things on the shelves, the picture of his parents on his nightstand, Carly's lamp on hers, the TV on its stand in the corner.

And suddenly, they were there. Sigma said, "Do not wait too long to return. You have not yet learned to use your energy efficiently, and it would be easy to exhaust yourself."

"Sigma Prime, thank you."

"You are very welcome, Samuel. It is good to visit this universe again. 'Til all are one, my young friend."

"'Til all are one," Sam replied.

He smiled as Sigma took his leave, then concentrated on Carly. She was sleeping peacefully, safe in their own bed. Bumblebee was recharging right outside.

Sam kissed her cheek softly, and let all his love surround her and their child. "Sleep well, honey. I'll be home soon."

She smiled and sighed a little in her sleep. Reluctantly, Sam concentrated on that faint silver light trailing behind him like a thread, and let it draw him home.

In a flash, he was back in his hotel room and wide awake, but it wasn't the terrifying awakening of his nightmare vision earlier. This time he clearly remembered his visit with Carly, as well as if he had simply stepped from the bedroom into the hallway. He knew that there had been more to his dream earlier, that Sigma Prime had been with him, and had told him to remember that prophecy was not set in stone. If it wasn't absolute, then potentially he could keep Bobby from getting shot.

And he could—project? Yes, that was what it was called.

The most important thing to him at that moment in time, though, was that the horrible nightmare need not come to pass—and that Carly was safe.

He slept again, comforted by that image, and rested until Bobby woke him up by grabbing the blankets off his bed. He retaliated with a thrown pillow, and the two of them got ready to go to a late breakfast/early lunch, the most important course of which was strong coffee.

They still had to figure out exactly what they were going to do about Westmoreland.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next morning, Sarah Lennox checked her schedule and found a reminder about the base Halloween party. The base was so small that it wouldn't take the kids any time to trick or treat everyone, even the bots. Therefore they needed something to keep them occupied the rest of the evening—a party. They would be watching old Dracula and Frankenstein movies, eating too much candy corn, and playing scary-themed party games. She had already roped Will into telling scary stories—toned down for the little kids, of course. The grown-up party wouldn't really get started until the kids went to bed. Celebrations like that helped keep morale up.

She met Diarwen in the commons. "Do you have a few moments?"

"Certainly, Sarah. How may I help?"

"I'm working on the Halloween party. I wanted to ask you to help, but not if you have any kind of religious objections. What is Halloween in your religion?"

"The religious observation is Samhain, and it has little to do with the modern, secular Halloween."

"Oh. So you won't be offended if one of the kids dresses up as an elf?"

"I would not, no. But I think that someone should ask Adele Hempstead that very same question."

Adele would, they found, deal with this whole thing by dressing as a witch herself, with a stick-on wart roughly the size of a large orange. Problem solved.

But Sarah said, "Will you tell me some more about Samhain, please? The more I know, the less likely I am to offend either her or you."

"Surely. Will you come have some tea with me? I need a pick-me-up before I report to manage the Tiny Trine."

"Surely. Let me contribute a few of my macaroons, will you? Homemade, and organic."

Diarwen sighed, and put a hand to her heart. "Please. I do not know how my people managed to survive so long as they did without the acquaintance of macaroons, Sarah."

Will's wife grinned. "Back in a minute."

Once they were seated in Diarwen's quarters, teapot between them and macaroons distributed, Diarwen said, "Samhain is New Year's, in my culture, and it is the new year observation for many modern Wiccans and pagans as well. It is traditionally a time for honoring and remembering those who have departed during the past year. Also, it is the celebration of the last harvest, and the beginning of the winter season. Remember that by the old reckoning, days ended and began again at sunset. Likewise the year ends and begins again with the transition from autumn to winter.

"The modern Halloween festivities have roots in the old Samhain traditions, but they no longer bear much of a resemblance. Children—and adults—of every culture enjoy spooky fun, though. It is a way of confronting fears under controlled conditions. And no one can argue with an excuse to beg for candy. It is a very separate thing for me. I will help with the children's party, but I will wish to take some time to myself after they've gone to bed for my religious observance."

"I'll mostly need your help getting started, and chaperoning the kids during the party. And if you know any spooky songs that aren't too scary for little kids...?"

"I know a few such," Diarwen laughed.

"What are you going to come as?"

"Arwen? I could do that easily enough!"

Sarah laughed. "That's cheating. Besides, if you do that, we'll have an entire platoon of GI Joes next year."

"Hmmm. I suppose I could be Neytiri...though her costume would be a bit risque for the children's party."

"Maid Marion?"

"Possible. The lady, rather than the legend, was indeed competent with a bow or sword, but much more effective as a spy."

Sara's eyebrows took flight. "Wait, there really was a Maid Marion?"

Diarwen daintily finished her macaroon. "Oh, yes, those tales are based on truth. Robin Lord Loxley was among the staunchest supporters of King Richard. But so much has been added to and lost from the record over the years that the few scraps of history which remain have been discounted as myth by scholars. His band of outlaws were not truly outlaws, but freedom fighters—as much a band of guerillas as any other. They did their best, but it was not always possible for them to steal from the rich and give to the poor as the legends insist. Marion encouraged the Sheriff of Nottingham because by doing so she gained vital information concerning King John's faction. I too spied on King John's court, for Queen Titania thought he might have designs upon Ireland—his father had named him Lord of Ireland, you know. The greed of tyrants rarely ends at the seashore. Marion and I usually found ourselves with a common purpose."

"I see. Well, Neytiri would work, but you might want to get that blue makeup off before your ritual."

"Yes, that's right too. I'd rather not have to deal with a lot of makeup..."

"Ghost, or mummy. It's all the costume, not the makeup."

"A mummy, I think, unless I can find some chains to clank that are not made of iron."

"Wheeljack probably has something. If not … I'll get Ratchet to order low-quality gauze. We can afford that."

"I will ask Wheeljack, if you'll ask Ratchet.."

"Deal." Sara happily ate a macaroon, and finished her tea. "I think I'll leave you the rest of the macaroons, Diarwen. Thank you for your help."

"I thank you, though I fear the macaroons will die a swift death," Diarwen said with a grin, and so they did.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Joe Treadwell had convinced himself that he, Joe Treadwell, did not mind the presence of Cybertronians in his life. He was also convinced that he was cool with souls of any color or origin. He might, if you got him drunk enough, extend that definition to the Cybertronian spark.

So when Ratchet took the target beside his own on the firing range, and gave him a courteous nod, he returned it, and ignored the frisson of fear down his spine coming from his gut that said, _This creature is two and a half times my height and about eighty times my weight_. He aimed and fired seven times in four seconds, coming from a waist level hands-in-front position for each of those shots, and scored six bull's-eyes. He could put his hand over all but one of his shots.

He narrowed his eyes. He was shooting lousy today.

Ratchet did a little better, but not much; he was a competent shooter, though, the truth be told, not as good a shot as many of the NEST personnel, squishies though they were. He was feared on the battlefield mostly because he _would _fight, and fight fiercely, for his patients: but a marksmech he was not.

"Nice," Treadwell said.

Ratchet glanced at him briefly, the actinic-blue eyes lasering down fifteen feet or so. "Thanks," he said briefly. "So you're not a fan of the Sidhe either, I take it."

"Yeah. Well, no." Treadwell carefully re-loaded. "If you can't tell the players without a scorecard, kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out."

Ratchet was shocked to the core of his being by that statement, never having heard it before. It was a Cybertronian's duty to be sure, before he (or she) let loose that bullet, that the Cybertronian on the receiving end was worthy of being offlined. A Decepticon badge had made that practical during the war. Now, though …

"She followed that decision tree herself, a couple of hundred years ago," the medic said, and slid another magazine into his weapon.

"Yeah? Doesn't surprise me. When, and where, was that?"

"A place called 'Magdeburg' in Europe. Sixteen thirty-one was the year, in the common era. She killed twenty priests, knights and men at arms in their sleep, and the Catholic Church offered her weight in gold as a reward for her capture."

Treadwell was transfixed. "You sure she did that?"

Ratchet shrugged, that very human, and very useful, gesture. "I asked her about it. She confirmed it."

"Did she now?" Treadwell meticulously policed his brass, picking up all the spent casings. "That's an interesting thing to know about her."

"Yes it is."

"And Optimus defends her."

"Yes. He does."

Something in Ratchet's tone shooed Treadwell all the way away from any further discussion of the Prime. He took the warning to heart. "As I said, Ratchet, that's an interesting thing to know. Nice seeing you; later, maybe."

"Maybe," Ratchet replied. _But not if I can avoid it_.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz poked around his office, fiddling with things as he often did while he was thinking. Wynton Marsalis' version of _Autumn Leaves_ played softly. He was inhabiting his frame almost full-time now, only jumping to the mainframe when it was easier to do complicated programming from inside. It was very satisfying to be able to pace the room, look out the window, and rearrange things on the shelves.

He remembered the web spider's disappearance, and that gave him an inspiration. He never had found out what had happened to the spider, but it remained conspicuous by its absence.

He sent out a bunch of them to start web-crawling at several different nodes all over the country, moving randomly from one to another in a shotgun approach, but reporting their next location before they moved. Soundwave, he hoped, would see this as an act of desperation, or frustration. If he ignored the spiders, Jazz' ploy would be a waste of time.

But if the Decepticon phantom swatted them, Jazz would know that they had gone missing. He could then poke a virtual pin in the map at the spider's last confirmed location, pointing towards its intended destination. Then, he would release another spider or two. In order to keep Soundwave from realizing what he was really doing, he gave each spider a little job to do every time it stopped—report back the MAC address of the computer it was in, for instance, or look for web cams and snap a picture. These little things were just naughty and snoopy enough that someone finding the spider would want to step on it—and Jazz hoped they wouldn't guess that was exactly what he wanted them to do.

The odds were, however, that few other than Sounders would be able to detect and destroy Jazz' web spiders. Given a while to collect data—and given that some of them would disappear for reasons unrelated to Sounders—the majority of those pins would start to create a pattern that would give Jazz an idea of Soundwave's usual haunts on the Internet.

Chip wheeled in. "Got a minute?"

"Sure, what's up?"

"Nothing that can't wait, I'm having some trouble codin' the control module for the wing casings of Skysong's ladybug costume. I want to slave it to her so that the casings get out of her way when she moves her wings; that way, there's no chance she can get pinched. They can't really hurt her, but it might scare her."

"Ah think she understands well enough now that we can tell her to be careful that they're open all the way 'fore she flaps her wings, so she don't ruin her costume. Then it won't scare her. But let's have a look at it. Ah ain't had a whole lot of experience with seeker coding, they had their own healers who specialized in that stuff. Kinda like, human flight surgeons are pilots, Ah guess."

"I didn't know you were a healer."

"M'not, exactly. But when it comes to coding, Ah'm kinda like a paramedic, Ah guess? If somebot's crashed bad, Ah can generally keep 'em from gettin' any worse until Ratchet gets there. Prowl, he had this logic glitch, and the damn twins useta think it was funny to set him off. But it wasn't, it was kinda like havin' a seizure is for humans. He'd have to do a full defrag before he'd get rid of the processor ache. It was more or less self-defense, so Ah learned how to help him head 'em off before they got that bad."

"A seizure? I had a friend in middle school who was epileptic. I think I'd have headed 'em off by kickin' the twins' afts."

"That's sorta what Ah did, when a bad one put him in medbay. More of an ambush than a fight, but they oughta known better than ta slag off a saboteur. Then Prime found out about it from Ratchet and laid down the law—and Ratchet let 'em self-repair the dents Ah gave 'em while they was in the brig. Ah was slagged about it longer than Prowl was. That was the last time they did it on purpose, but ya know Sides and Sunny ain't always logical. Just bein' around them was dangerous for Prowler." He shook his head, lost in memory for a moment, then he turned his attention back to the code for the animated parts of Skysong's Halloween costume.

The two of them worked on that for an hour or so, before a ping from Jazz' mainframe informed him that one of his spiders had gone offline.

"Whoops, that was quick! 'Scuse me a minute, Chip, while I check this out."

"Sure thing," Chip replied absently, concentrating on the program he was writing.

Jazz jumped into his mainframe to check the spider's log. It had last been in a hub in St. Louis, headed for Kansas City. A quick excursion on the net told him that it had been in a computer in a busy university library, probably used by a hundred people every day, and logged into by users all over the world. By itself, the information meant nothing. The spider's deactivation could have been mischance, or it could have run into trouble originating in Timbuktu. He would just have to wait for more data.

Jazz was about to go back to his frame, when he got the creepy feeling that he was being watched. He strengthened his firewalls and explored the node. He comprehended nearly all the users as gray, ephemeral featureless forms, humans working away at terminals. Only one was "real" to him.

And that one was Soundwave.

Jazz only had time to push everything he had into his firewall before a wave of energy came at him, as if he'd been caught in a flame-thrower's blast.

Somehow, the firewall held just long enough to survive the attack. Disoriented, shaken loose from the library computer, he zipped along his back trail and jumped madly into his frame, cutting off all connection with the mainframe and then cutting off the mainframe's connection to the base network. Then, he sat there shaking for an entire klick.

Dimly, he became aware of Chip's increasingly frantic attempts to get his attention. "Jazz, dammit, answer me or I'm getting Ratchet!"

"No, no, Ah'm alright, Ah think."

"What happened?"

"Soundwave—he got a spider—it was a trap Ah set—and when Ah went to check it out, he was layin' for me. Primus, that was close!"

"Spider? What spider, what are you talkin' about?"

Jazz backed up and explained what had happened, then commed Optimus to report the incident.

Chip asked, "Any chance you got Soundwave trapped in your mainframe?"

"Ah doubt it, he ain't that dumb." All the same, Jazz disconnected the mainframe's power. If Sounders was in there, let him chew on that.

End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(The Underhill)

Jason Brierly awakened slowly, feeling like the time he had when he and his best friend Tony had swiped a twelve-pack of beer and drank it in the garage their dads shared as workspace. The hangover would have been punishment enough without their parents all going ballistic.

He didn't know where he was. He wasn't in his bed, and a bleary look around told him he wasn't in his room or even his house.

The last thing he remembered was walking home from the bus stop. There had been a noise in an alley. He'd started to run—he thought—but after that everything had gone black.

Sheer terror sobered Jason up in about two seconds flat. Every kid grew up on horror stories of child molesters and serial killers. He couldn't think of any other reason why someone would kidnap him; his dad and Tony's uncle made a pretty good living with their garage but they weren't rich by any stretch of the imagination.

The fact that he'd been stripped to the skin didn't reassure him a bit.

Jason had grown up knowing he was "allergic" to everything, but he wasn't the only kid in his school who had to eat an all-natural diet. He was the only one who couldn't touch anything made of iron or steel for more than a minute or so without getting a huge welt, and later even a sore like a burn—and it hurt like hell. Anyway, he had grown up one of "those kids" who got special treatment for "allergies." He'd started learning tae kwan do to shut up the other boys who called him a sissy for it.

That would be a big surprise to whatever perv had kidnapped him. And when his dad found out, someone was going to get his ass kicked!

They'd stolen his clothes, even his favorite sneakers, which meant they also had his phone, his keys, his money, and everything else in his wallet including stuff that had his address on it. He was scared stiff they'd go after his parents next. He had to find a phone and call the cops!

The furniture was funny looking, heavy carved wood stuff, and two of the walls were carved out of rock.

There was no phone—there weren't even any electric lights, and nowhere to plug any in, for that matter.

Jason had heard news stories of people being kidnapped and kept locked up in basements for years.

He was scared out of his mind, but he knew he couldn't curl up in the corner and cry. He had to think, find a way out.

Lying on a chair, he found some weird clothes, a funny pair of black pants with a drawstring like pajamas, a green shirt that pulled over his head and hung halfway down his thighs like a girl's mini-dress, and a long strip of cotton that was clearly intended for underwear.

Fortunately, he'd seen enough Japanese anime to have an idea what to do with that—though he had never actually tied a fundoshi before, and it came out a little lumpy. But at least he had clothes.

He had no shoes and socks, but he guessed whoever had put him in here didn't think he'd need them.

He tried the door and found it locked.

The place looked more like a set from a Harry Potter movie than someplace a crazy person would build in his basement to lock up a kidnap victim.

Jason thought about the time those bullies had threatened to throw him under a bus unless he gave them his lunch money. He remembered how the wind had come up suddenly, blowing dirt in their eyes, and given him the chance to run for his life. Was Harry Potter real? Had that been accidental magic?

He tried to remember if he'd seen any owls anytime near his eleventh birthday.

That was stupid, he couldn't go imagining stuff if he was going to get out of here, wherever "here" was.

He tried to bust the door down, but the lock was too strong for a smallish teenage kid to do that. He sat down on the chair where he'd found his clothes. There was nothing he could do until they came to feed him.

He refused to think about the possibility that whoever had grabbed him might let him starve in here, and he viciously wiped away a few tears.

Whoever opened that door was going to be sorry they'd messed with him!

-Sidhe Chronicles-

His determination had given way to apprehension several times when, finally, he heard a key in the lock.

Jason readied himself to attack whoever came through the door, but it was an old lady dressed like an actress from Lord of the Rings. He wasn't going to hit an old lady.

"Who are you? What do you want with me? You'd better let me go! You people are going to be in all kinds of trouble when the cops find me!"

The old lady just looked at him and said something in a foreign language. Jason shook his head. The old lady grabbed his arm to drag him out of the room. Instinctively he jerked out of her grip, but he followed along, since wherever she was taking him, he was getting out of there.

The bedroom where Jason had awakened was part of a large, lavish apartment. The old woman led him into some kind of big living room, and once again Jason wondered if he had been dumped into Harry Potter World because it looked like somewhere a filthy rich family of pureblood wizards would have lived. He gulped. Anything in the room probably cost more than Jason's dad made in a year.

There were no windows anywhere. This whole ritzy apartment was in a basement? Exactly what was going on here?

The woman indicated that Jason should sit down on one of a pair of sofas in front of an ornate fireplace. When he hesitated, she gave him a gentle push and said something in that same foreign language.

He decided there was no point in contrariness for its own sake. Maybe it would be better to pretend to be easy-going and compliant, then they wouldn't expect it when he made his move. He sat down on the sofa.

The old woman bowed to him and backed away a few steps before she turned to leave by a small door that was nearly hidden by a huge floor-to-ceiling bookcase.

Once again, Jason waited, listening to the quiet crackle of the fireplace.

After a few moments the room's main door was opened by a man in a red uniform who bowed as another man, slender, regal, with long dark hair fastened back in a tail entered the room. The woman on his arm was pretty—_movie star_ pretty—and she wore a long fancy dress decorated all over with sparkly little gems. The same kind of jewels glittered in her intricately braided hair.

They crossed to look at him, and he looked back.

Their ears were very slightly pointed, just like his. Their brows were upswept at the ends, just like his. And, their eyes? The same very dark blue, almost black.

The woman spoke to him, but once again, he didn't understand a word of it.

The man snapped something, annoyed with someone. Then, before Jason could react, he quickly stepped forward and grabbed Jason's head, forcing the boy to look into his eyes.

Energy crackled between them, and it felt like his head was on fire, and then he felt a presence in his mind. He panicked, fighting, trying to force the intruder out. The man slapped him hard, and while he was reeling from that, finished whatever he was doing. It _hurt._

"OW! What the hell did you just do to me? Get off!"

The man slapped him again, knocking him to the ground. "It is not your fault that you act like an animal, you will learn differently very quickly. I am your father, Alsarith. This is your mother, Nianon. Your name is Evanon. You will forget the ways of the beasts that you have lived among, and learn to act like a proper young Sidhe nobleman. The first lesson that you will learn is duty and obedience to your house, for that is the beginning of a warrior's honor."

Evanon realized he had understood that. He wondered if the translation would go both ways, and drew upon his tae kwon do etiquette. "Forgive me, sir, I did not know."

Mollified, the man nodded, and pulled him to his feet. "There is no way you that you could have, if those imbeciles who retrieved you failed to imprint you with our language." Alsarith clapped his hands, and a young man entered, dressed in medieval-looking costume like everyone else he'd seen so far.

"How may I serve you, my lord?"

"This is my son, Evanon. Evanon, this is my retainer Arithor. He will teach you our ways."

"Yes, sir."

"Take him back to his chamber and begin."

Arithor bowed, then said, "Come with me, Lord Evanon."

The boy followed. His head ached fiercely, enough that he barely paid attention to the bruise forming on his cheek. He glanced at the woman who had been introduced as his mother, and felt a chill of fear at her cold appraisal.

He had to get out of here and get back home before these crazy people decided he wasn't good enough to be their kid after all and killed him. But to do that, he had to find out where "here" was, and how to get from here to New York City. The only way he would manage that was to do what was expected of him, convince them he was happy to take his rightful place, and learn everything he could about this whacked-out place as fast as he could.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City Base)

Chip Chase finished his morning target practice. He was on his own this morning; Jack was stuck in medbay, having caught something from one of the kids who had been brought in with a high fever. Parker had told Chip to stay away from anyone showing symptoms, since the steroids he was on made it more likely that he would catch it too, and an illness could be more serious for him. One of the nurses had helped him with his morning routine, and then he'd gone about his business.

He had gained a new appreciation for all the help that Jack was to him over the course of a morning. A loud yell would bring someone to help with things he _really_ couldn't do himself, but Chip didn't want to be a nuisance, and he sure didn't want to be the boy who cried wolf. So he dealt with the frustrations himself, and made a note to that same self to tell Jack how much his work was appreciated.

He finished up, recorded his results and threw his targets away. One of the engineers from S9, Mark Emory, said admiringly, "Damn! Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

"I was a Ranger. I was with NEST until, y'know, this."

"Thanks for your service, man."

Chip heard that a lot, and he was never sure how to respond, but Emory's steady gray gaze was open and honest. He wasn't just saying it because it happened to be in style right now. So he nodded, and replied, "I'm proud to have been part of this outfit. It was a real honor."

Emory nodded. "Anything I can do while I'm here?"

"Yeah, if you wouldn't mind, I need some gun oil and a couple of rags off the top shelf in the shed."

"Sure thing." Both men settled down to the well-practiced task of cleaning their weapons. Chip holstered his sidearm and packed everything else into a carrying case, which he twisted in his chair to hang over the headrest. Then he finished a bottle of water and threw the empty at a recycling box. It dropped right in.

Emory tried the same thing and missed, then ran over to get it and dropped it in. "Catch you later, man, I'm on my way out to the worksite."

Chip checked his watch. He had a couple of hours before he had to do anything. It would be a great day to test the contactless control system he and Wheeljack were designing. He could handle it very well. Parker, who had developed a little bit of skill with energy work, could do it with an effort. But most people were left scratching their heads.

Wheeljack had got the idea to incorporate a feedback system, so that new users could practice at first without actually being in the chair and risking getting hurt by sending the wrong command. They would feel a buzz if they were successful, its intensity in direct relation to the effort that they put into controlling the unit. That was equivalent to how far forward they'd push the joystick, and how fast the chair would go, if they were controlling it that way.

Chip was testing that the feedback was, in fact, proportional to the percentage of throttle he was using. He also wanted to make sure it didn't become annoying or even painful if he ran the chair full out for a while. With the amount of flat, level road they had on base, he usually only worried about two speeds—stop and full speed ahead—unless he cut cross-country.

He had the road to himself today, except for a distant running figure. He couldn't identify the person, but unless the runner set an exceptionally swift pace, his chair was faster.

Occasionally he heard a distant boom. The Cybertronian construction crew was blasting up at the site where the new housing for the bots was being built.

Such an explosion raised a plume of dust high into the air. Chip was looking at that, and not watching the road, when one of his rear wheels dropped into a small hole.

The chair stopped abruptly and tipped over. Chip leaned to the high side, letting the chair arm take the impact, then braced his arms hard to stop it from rolling over on him, callused hands tough enough not to be scraped up too badly by the sand and gravel. Once the chair was stable, he loosened his restraints and pulled out of it, checking himself for injury as best he could. He found none, and turned his attention to his transportation.

The controller was all right.

He pulled himself around to the other side of the chair to check the wheels. The drive wheels were all right, but when he checked the rear wheel that had got caught in the hole, he found that the tire had come off the rim. "Shit fire and save the matches!" he shouted.

The tires were little more than hard rubber O-rings, but getting one back on its rim was going to be a job and a half. He crawled on around to the back of the chair to get his tools, then took another five minutes positioning his lower half so that he could work on the tire.

Improvising tire irons with a couple of small wrenches, he started the laborious job of stretching and pushing the tire onto the rim. Twice one of the wrenches, not intended for that purpose, slipped and bruised his hand.

He drank a little water while he thought about a better way to accomplish that. The once-distant running figure approached him: Mikaela. He watched appreciatively.

She stopped perhaps five feet from him, and bent, hands on knees, long enough to catch her breath; this too was a sight for sore eyes, in Chip's opinion. Straightening, she said, "Need another pair of hands?"

Chip grinned. "What I need are some tire irons, but it might be easier with two people working on it."

Between the two of them, they got the tire back on the wheel. Chip gave it an experimental spin to be sure there was no other damage, then Mikaela tried to turn the chair upright and discovered how heavy it was.

Chip pulled himself around to the other side of the chair. "You pull, I'll push."

On a three-count, the two of them put their muscles in to it. The chair turned upright and stayed that way.

Kaela found the hole that had caused the wreck, and located several rocks to fill it with while Chip got back into his chair and strapped himself back in. He carefully tested the controls, finding that the contactless system was undamaged.

Kaela tightened his chair arm, which had loosened a little, then he paced himself to her running speed. He asked, "Are you going to the Halloween party?"

"Yeah, probably, if there aren't any emergencies in medbay. You?"

"I was thinkin' about it."

"Should be fun," Kaela said. "What are you going as?"

He laughed, "You'll see."

"No really, what?"

"A dalek," he said.

She giggled. "Ex-ter-min-ate!"

"I downloaded what's supposed to be actual plans for a prop they used in the show, may or may not be something they actually used but it's doable. I had to change it a little and scale it up some to fit it over my chair but I think it's going to look pretty convincing. I've kind of been going back and forth between that and Skimmer's costume in my spare time."

"Skimmer? What's he going as?"

"A steampunk bat. I _think_ he's been on the Internet."

"_That_ ain't good!" Kaela laughed.

"Took Jazz about two seconds to put up Net Nanny."

"Yeah, and it'll take them about two more seconds to crack it."

Chip snorted. "Never ending battle."

"What are the other two going to be?"

"Song is a ladybug, and Stormy wants to go as a World War One biplane. Those actually aren't too hard to build."

"Got to get pictures," she said.

"Absolutely. What are you going as?"

"I don't know. Probably whatever I can find the day before in the costume shop."

"You could go as the Doctor," Chip suggested.

"I guess, if we went together it wouldn't look too stupid," she said.

They looked at each other, neither wanted to take previous parts of the conversation back, and that was how their first date became the base Halloween party.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet tried hard not to grin at the three little seekers lined up on a medical berth. "What's going on with you today?"

They just giggled. Barricade explained, "Prime said something about wanting you to check Song out, but that was right before Ironhide got stuck in the water."

"OK, it's about time for their next checkup anyhow. We'll just do that now and get it out of the way. Song, did Prime say why he wanted me to see you?"

She just looked up at him, little ruby optics wide and curious. "Not 'zactly."

"Well, what's the matter?"

"My helm itches."

He looked, and sure enough, there were some fine talon-scratches. "H'mm. The nanites expand the plates from the edges, so it isn't that. Could be some kind of microscopic corrosion. Megs had them in a bunch of filthy drums, apparently—"

Barricade nodded, and confirmed, "That's what Starscream told me he did."

"There's no telling what they got into. Let me put a scraping under the scanner and see what we got."

Song flinched away from the scraper, until Ratchet told her, "It won't hurt. You don't want Jolt to think you're a scaredy-glitchmouse, do you?"

She scowled. "M'not scared!"

Ratchet quickly took the scraping and inserted it into the scanner, which showed nothing wrong. "Did you get your helm too hot and cool it quickly? Metal expanding and contracting can itch."

"No. It was cool. I like clouds. Do you like clouds, Racha?"

"Uh—I guess so. Does it itch right now?"

"Nope."

"Ok. Where exactly did it itch?"

She pointed one talon at a spot on her helm. "Right there!"

"Racha" shined a light on it and dialed his optics up to maximum magnification. There was nothing on the shiny metal that should be itching.

"Well, we'll do a full workup and see if we can find out what's doing it. Are you mecha itchy too?"

They shook their little helms in tandem.

Ratchet did all the tests he could think of to explain an itch, all of which came up negative. He was beginning to think she had made one little scratch, then the sensation of the scratch spoiling the airflow had led to more scratching and more itching. If that was it, then a good buffing to get rid of the scratches followed by a thorough polishing should help. There was a reason why seekers were fussy about their finish.

"Stop scratching, it only makes it worse," he told her.

"I know _that._ I can't scratch it anyhow, it's under my helm!"

"What—_Oh! _Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?"

"Wasn't what you asked me!" she protested.

Barricade asked, "What's the matter with her?"

Ratchet explained, "Seeker growing pains. You know sparklings' processors naturally upgrade themselves as they grow and demand more processing power? Seekers' nanite lines have a little bit different coding than ours. They tend to upgrade in bursts—a lot of growth in one session. The itching is just a side-effect of that. It's perfectly normal." Song was giving him her head-tilted-sideways puzzled look. "It just means you're growing up and getting smarter, Bitlet."

"Oh! OK!"

"Does that mean we're dumb cause our helms don't itch?" Skimmer demanded, sounding insulted.

"No, not at all. It just means you didn't notice the itch when you upgraded. You probably will now, because you'll be looking for it." Ratchet consulted the protocols for standard tests to be run at this stage of seekerling development. Most were the usual things every sparkling was examined for, since most systems were the same.

The most important examination was checking the placeholder that was developing for the T-cog they would get with their youngling frames. This placeholder, while not functional, guided the development of vital subroutines which eventually would allow the new younglings to scan their first alts and transform. If anything went wrong at this stage, they might never be able to do so even if given a fully functional T-cog. That was a rare but much-dreaded malfunction, and Ratchet was relieved to find everything coming along as it should.

The other tests involved analysis of various fluids, and a CNA profile of each little bot's repair nanites to scan for a certain glitch common to many seeker lines that could be repaired if caught in time.

Song was smug that this time she wasn't the only one being poked and sampled, her brothers had to put up with it as well! But then Stormy started crying, and she and Skimmer comforted him, until Jolt distracted them all with a bribe of oil cakes.

Barricade snitched one as well on his way out the door with the little ones. Ratchet shook his helm, thinking that he had sparklings of every age on this base, and activated several pieces of equipment back in the medical lab to run the tests on the samples he'd taken.

Some were done quickly, but the CNA analysis and a few of the others would take a little while. He recorded results from the first tests (completely normal), then helped Jolt clean the medbay while he waited for the others to finish, so that they could get out of the Quonset hut and find somewhere to sit in the shade during the hottest part of the afternoon. In mid-October, the temperature hovered in the high 80s, making the building stuffy and uncomfortable, even if it not the hell of the triple digits of high summer.

How quickly the seasons on this planet passed.

Ratchet had finished restocking everything used during the Trine's examination when a ping alerted him to the tests' completion. He went in the lab to download the results.

He had forgotten that one of the things determined by the CNA test, in the case of hatchlings, was parentage. Hatchlings had two or three parents, a carrier and one or two other genitors. The carrier contributed most of the hatchling's repair nanite coding, though all of the genitors could be identified. The carrier also determined frame type when the parents' frames differed, since the hatchling's budding protoform and egg were constructed from materials borrowed from the carrier's frame.

Fortunately, nearly all the 'Cons had ended up in Ratchet's medbay at some point during the war, later to escape or to be returned to their side in a prisoner transfer. Ratchet had kept medical records on every single one he'd ever laid servos on; you never knew what would be useful, or needed later.

The Tiny Trine's genitors were Megatron's command trine.

Much to his surprise Ratchet found himself thinking fondly of Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp, simply for that reason.

All three of them had carried. Skysong was Skywarp and TC's creation, carried by Skywarp, while all three had contributed to Skimmer and Stormy. Skysong would undoubtedly develop her carrier's ability to warp as she matured. They would have to be very careful in teaching her to use her talent, since no Autobot had that ability.

TC had carried Stormy. The dark blue sparkling would undoubtedly grow to be a very large mech, even if he did not choose as an adult to be reformatted as a shipformer, as the largest seekers often had for at least part of their life-cycles during the Golden Age. Whether he would develop his carrier's sonic abilities, Ratchet did not know; they might have been either inborn or modifications.

Skimmer, though...Starscream had been Starskimmer's carrier. That tiny sunshine-yellow mechling was the hereditary Winglord of Vos, rightful leader of the entire Flock of seekers, however many of them were left alive out in the galaxy.

Ratchet sat down and studied the results again, as if hoping the glyphs would change. That little bot, as well as his brother and sister, had been chosen by destiny for something less than an easy life.

After a long, ex-vented sigh, Ratchet pinged Jazz. "Something's come up. I need to talk to you."

"Sure! Ah'm not doing anything really important right now. Your office?"

"Yes, I'd like to do a quick scan while you're here."

"Comin' right over," the saboteur replied.

Presently, he heard Jazz and Jolt exchange cheerful greetings out in the ward, then the ops team leader tapped at his office door and the CMO pinged it open. He stood still for a moment while Ratchet conducted the scan.

"What's the verdict?"

"Jazz, if I didn't know better, I'd mistake you for a drone at first glance. Congratulations," Ratchet pronounced wryly.

Jazz laughed heartily. "Essentially, that's what Ah am, in frame anyhow, ain't it?"

"With only a few differences. Close examination of your energy fields would reveal the difference. Drones have never had a spark, so their fields aren't configured to accept one. Your fields still show slight permutations. And, of course, drones don't have bonds. But it would take a medical scan to give any of that away."

Jazz filed that away under Potentially Useful Disguise Information.

"Other than that, as Dr. Parker says, you're as healthy as a horse. All your systems have onlined and integrated properly. But the fact is, you aren't tied to that frame. It's more like a remote that you're inhabiting. From here on out—we didn't cover this in medical school. Both of us will have to keep a close watch for any issues that might come up, and take it one joor at a time."

Jazz asked, "Just outta curiousity, Doc—how long do you think Ah have like this?"

"No idea," Ratchet replied. "You expend energy to stay here, but there are plenty of sources for the energy you need. That's no different from your frame's requirement for energon. Human ghosts apparently can remain for many times their normal lifespan, according to Nathan Stoughton, but I have no idea what that means for Cybertronians. My best advice on that? Leave it to Primus. None of us knows how long we have, beyond right now."

"Makes sense," Jazz replied. "What did you need to talk to me about?"

"Optimus should be here for this, but I'll tell him when I see him later. I ran the nanite scans on the Trine, and it revealed their ancestry. They're the command trine's, and Skimmer's carrier was Starscream."

"Aw, mech, here we go!"

"No kidding. If this gets out to the 'Cons—"

"Well, we gotta make sure it don't get out, if they don't know already, that is. We don't know what the circumstances were that persuaded Starscream, TC and Skywarp decided to have them. There were more sparklings; we don't know who their genitors were. They coulda been in stasis aboard the _Nemesis _for a long time. It's possible Screamer hid the Trine among those, if they didn't want anyone to know they had sparked."

"I doubt Megs gave them permission, but it would have gone against Starscream's coding to allow his line to die out."

"If the 'Con seekers knew about him, they'd see him as a threat to their ambitions. Strika has never made any secret about wanting to be Winglord."

Ratchet had to agree with that.

Jazz said, "Could also mean the next Winglord's an Autobot."

"You damn spy, leave off the political machinations till he's old enough to understand what Winglords and Autobots and Decepticons are, why don't you?"

"Ah would if Ah thought the 'Cons would, Ratch. It's somethin' we gotta take into account. Barricade's his Guardian, but the rest of the Seekers would never accept a grounder as regent. If they find out about Skimmer, he has to claim his right so we can fight in his name, and so he can draw the Flock to his banner. If it comes to a struggle for leadership of the Flock, he'll have to win or die. Any one of us would stand as champion for him, you know that. Ah hope fate leaves him be till he's older, but we can't guarantee that's going to happen. He needs to know, soon as he's old enough to start understandin'. It does mean his core-level imperatives won't force him to follow Strika, not if he sees her as a challenger rather than a superior."

Ratchet felt a processor ache developing. Nothing was ever simple. He got out the high-grade.

Jazz arched an optic ridge at him. "When you can't cope, celebrate," the medic said, and the spy didn't stop him from pouring out a second cube.

End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz got a chance to talk to Barricade when the former 'Con was coming out of the washracks that afternoon. They found a good place in the sun and Jazz said, "Ratchet got the results back from the Trine's tests."

"Yeah, what'd they say?"

"They're fine, everything came back great. But you know, the tests told Ratchet who their genitors are."

"They belong to the command trine, don't they?"

"Yeah, how many of the 'Cons knew that?"

"I don't know that any of them did, but I saw some of the other hatchlings now and then. They looked like the old-model seekers, not like my three. And if you look 'em in the face, there's a lot of resemblance." He ex-vented. "Did Ratchet tell you who carried?"

"Yeah. Skimmer's Screamer's creation. Song is Skywarp's, and Stormy belongs to Thundercracker."

"That little yellow scraplet's the next Winglord of Vos," Barricade said, shaking his head. "Can't catch a break, can they?"

"It'll protect him from having to follow other Seekers, and they might follow him."

"Might," Barricade agreed. "Might not."

"We'll help you protect them."

"I know. Won't stop Strika from wantin' 'em."

Jazz considered that putting something in her energon might keep her from getting them. He wouldn't mention that to Prime, of course.

-Sidhe Chronicles

Optimus had reason to seek out Ratchet. Not for anything painful and annoying; simply, as he did with most of his people, to have some high-grade with him. The first time the Prime had dropped by Killstrike's crew, cubes in subspace, to do this, they had responded to him with glyphs of startled respect and equally startled gratitude, just as Barricade had: and Sunstreaker, come to that. But all of the ex-Cons were now getting used to being a part of the clan – and wasn't that a thing he never would have thought possible, Optimus mused, setting out the cubes.

Ratchet arrived in his office. "Thank you, Optimus," he said, taking a cube and settling into his chair. "Just what the medic ordered."

Optimus smiled at the bot who was his oldest friend. "You are welcome, Ratchet. How are things with you?"

"That kinda depends on how things are with everyone else." Ratchet had recourse to his high-grade, and smiled. "I see that Sunny's back to distilling again. He has a much greater talent for it than Sides."

"Yes. A very smooth aftertaste. So how _is_ everyone?"

"I have nobot in med bay at the moment. The human side's a little busier, but …" He shrugged. "I'm not equipped for microsurgery. There's not a lot I can do, outside of input lab results for Parker. Happy to do that; it's easier for me than for her people. Did you know that human nurses are now given more instruction in running a computer than in caring for patients?"

"It may be that they have good reasons for all the record-keeping."

"I sure as the Pit hope so." The medic lowered the level of his cube appreciatively. "The Trine are approaching the Age of Acceptance. Did you track that?"

"No, I did not. Song complained of an itch inside her helm the other day, which is why I sent her to you after we flew together. I had been going to tell you why, but the flash flood …"

"Eyah. She said that, but didn't tell me why you sent her. Thanks for the treasure hunt. That itch is pretty normal, actually, for a Seeker. The cranial processor sometimes forms neural connections in bursts. Most kids just ignore it. Song's been a little more in touch with herself since she was so badly injured so young." The medic smiled an impish smile. "And, by the way, I have the results of their tests. Want to know who their carriers were?"

"I … do not know. I am not sure it should be known, actually."

Ratchet's brow plates elevated. "Why the Pit not?"

"Expectations," the Prime said flatly.

"A good point." Ratchet swirled the high-grade in its cube, watching the pretty stuff coruscate as it made a small vortex. "However, one carrier was Starscream. That makes one of our Tiny Trine the hereditary Winglord of Vos."

There was a long moment of quiet. "That is disturbing. I may have taken shots at Starscream simply because I did not know that he was…"

"Optimus, as I have said to you one hundred and thirteen times before, you can't blame yourself for things you don't know. At least not in my presence, because I won't listen. And there's a good reason to let the kids know whose they are, or at least to let that particular hatchling know."

"The knowledge would free him of needing to follow…who is left? Let us say Strika. That one always gave me nightmares."

"Me too. I faced her in battle a few times, but never had her in medbay. Just as well; it would have been a terrible temptation to let my hand slip while I was treating her."

"Ratchet!"

"What?"

The Prime sighed. "Ratchet, you continue to surprise and distress me."

"Optimus, I have killed off the battlefield before and I will again, if it's needed. You know that about me."

"Yes. I suppose I do."

"Drink your high-grade. We still have to think through what and when to tell the kids."

"I want some time to think about that ...I also need to think through whether I need to know."

Ratchet grinned. "And you really think that once the Trine know, they won't spread that knowledge far and wide?"

"Mm." Had Sunstreaker heard the Prime's tone over his mouthful of the yellow bot's work, he'd have smiled (and quite possibly the world-as-we-know-it would have ended). "Well, let us put it aside for a while. Right now, I am a little baffled about what to do about the Acceptance; I have no acolyte."

"You need one for that? Can you train Barricade?"

"No," the Prime said simply. "The acolyte has to have had enough religious training to carry out some complex functions in the direct, close presence of the Matrix, and not just gape open-mouthed at it."

Ratchet nodded. "Tell Flareup, and she'll let it be known."

"Far and wide," agreed Optimus, and later that day did exactly that.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Burnout was remarkably subdued after Flareup had gone on her way, thoroughly flirted with by Killstrike to the satisfaction of both parties.

"S'a'matter?" Killstrike said, moving into the shade of the large overhang where Burnout sat, elbows on knees.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing, really." _Nothing I want to say to you guys, because you'll never talk to __me again once you find out._

Killstrike put a servo on the smaller mech's shoulder. "Come and talk to me if you need to."

Crossfire, Quickshot, and Jackknife all mumbled some version of "Me too," with Holdout, predictably, the holdout. But when the others moved off, it was he who took Burnout's elbow in a hard servo, and said, "What is it? Spill."

"No. No, I don't want to, Holdout. Sorry, but it's a part'a my past I don' wanna think about too much."

Holdout let go. "We all got those, Burn. Yours ain't any worse than the rest of ours."

"Yes it is. I was a coward."

Holdout's eyebrows raised. "An' you think you're alone in that?"

"Maybe not. But what I did was…bad."

"Look. I saw my cohort fall, I didn't run to join 'em, and I kept the rest of the gestalt from doin' it too. I ran the opposite way." Burnout finally looked at him, instead of down at his own pedes. "So you might as well tell me about it. It can't be all that much worse'n what I did."

"But you–" Burnout fell silent, his fields confused, and Holdout sighed, unsubspacing a cube of high-grade. He opened it, took a slurp–a nice effect, he noted–and passed it across to Burn. Some moments required medication.

Burn took a thoughtful gulp, and savored the liquid before swallowing it. "Did you know I was an acolyte at the Temple of Simfur?"

Holdout sent him glyphs of respect. "No, I didn't know that. You was in trainin' t'be a priest?"

"Yeah. I'd made acolyte two vorn before the city fell." The cube passed back to him, and he sipped from it. "That day, I was posted as a lookout at the Ranith Gate into the compound, the one that's–that _was–_pretty isolated from the rest of the compound. The Chief Priest sent an order for all of us to report, but I was handling an incoming shipment, and needed to finish that before I was free to go." The smaller Cybertronian shrugged. "It was the first day in almost two weeks when there wasn't any reason to rush, so I sorta…dawdled my way across the campus. I knew I'd probably get chewed for it by the Dean of Acolytes, but I didn't care."

Holdout gave a sort of comforting snort. "Anybody mighta done the same, Burn."

"Yeah, maybe. But by the time I got within sight of the Quad, all the priests and novices and acolytes had been lined up, and I saw..."

There was a long, hot silence under the little overhang.

The desert day was heating up. Holdout's gestalt sent him an impatient ping, to which he replied with seldom-used and quite vulgar glyphs, and they shut the frag up, as requested.

Some synapses fired within Holdout's processor. "You saw them all killed, didn't you."

"All of them. It didn't take long. Two sweeps with some kind of weapon Soundwave had. They all fell, and I..." Burnout gulped. "I walked back to my quarters, shed my vestments, sanded a long groove into my chest plate that removed the Mark of Primus. That took me a whole joor. After … everybody was dead, the temples were raided, and then the quarters were scoured for supplies. I left the compound using a meditation technique the priests taught us to use when we had to work around the sick or the sleeping; it keeps you from being noticed. I went out into the city, but my clan were all dead. There weren't any Autobots left there, only dead civilians and Megatron's forces. So I joined up, said I was working as a messenger and had returned dry, nothing to deliver, told the truth from that point. They took me on."

"Go tell Optimus who you are and what you can do," Holdout said, standing and extending a servo to the younger bot. "He needs the help. If you're to blame, truly to blame, you know he'll give you work to do to set it right." The other paused, looking out across the desert. "I don't think he will, though."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus opened his trailer's doors, then inhabited Roller to help Diarwen load the boxes of donated items and bags of groceries onto a cart. It wasn't a full trailer load; his flight deck and extra weapons took up most of the room in the trailer. But every nook and cranny was full. Most of it was occupied by canned goods and clothing, but some of the ladies had gotten together to make three quilts, and there were two large boxes of women's magazines, which the ladies in the shelter appreciated. Que had collected a couple of large boxes of outgrown toys and carefully cleaned them up, making sure they were all in good working order.

Diarwen piled the last box on and jumped down from the back of the trailer, just as someone came up to the back to offer to help.

Diarwen caught the edge of the door and pulled herself to one side, rather ungracefully, but it prevented her from knocking an old man down. "I am so sorry! I did not see you! Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you." The old man was a priest. He and Diarwen stared at one another long enough for the silence to become awkward.

Optimus intervened by saying, "You must be Father James. We spoke on the telephone earlier."

"Yes, I am."

Diarwen got hold of herself. "We have the donations for the homeless shelter from the Mission City base. May I ask where you would like them delivered?"

The priest got his wits about him. "Inside the gym right here will be fine. May I help you with anything?"

"I think we have everything, Father," Diarwen answered politely.

When they stepped clear, Optimus extended his cargo ramps, then as Roller, pushed the cart down the ramp, with Diarwen steadying the front of it. Once the cart was out of the way, Roller collected the last few items and helped her take them inside.

He could see that Diarwen was distinctly uncomfortable, for reasons that he well understood, but the priest also seemed ill at ease. So once they had everything unloaded, Roller hitched himself to the cart and pulled it back into the trailer, then stowed the ramps. "Diarwen, shall we? I believe we may have another stop?"

Diarwen, aware there was no such stop, was grateful for the excuse to leave quickly. As soon as good manners allowed, she climbed into Optimus' cab and they left the shelter.

Once Optimus had taken a southbound turn, he asked Diarwen, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I think so. I'm sorry I reacted that way."

"It is understandable. What was curious to me was that he had a similar reaction."

"I cannot glamour myself any longer, Optimus. Anyone who is sensitive in the slightest will be aware that something about me is different," she explained. "He was probably as happy to see the back of me as I was to be away from there."

Optimus said, "The next time something needs to be brought there, I think someone besides you should do it. I did not care for the way he looked at you."

"That is probably wise."

And as far as they were concerned, that was an end to it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Joseph Treadwell found himself more concerned than ever about the Sidhe presence on base after his conversation with Ratchet. He knew he had upset the medic with his callous-sounding comment—but Ratchet hadn't seen the damage caused by the last two returned changelings that S5 had captured. They came back with no sense of morality and little self-worth. They were pathetically grateful for any scrap of kindness you handed out, but that didn't mean they wouldn't stab you in the back for the money in your wallet, like the first one had done to his grandfather. The other one, a twelve-year-old girl, had ended up pregnant by the next door neighbor inside a month because she'd never been taught she had the right to say no. They needed to be put somewhere for their own safety and everyone else's, at least until they could be taught how to take care of themselves. And putting them in with the other kids so they could spread witchcraft—that was just stupid.

He took one of the base vehicles into town that Saturday afternoon to go to confession. Most people went to churches in Tranquility or Mission City, but he decided it might be better to go into Las Vegas and find a parish a little further removed from the base, where NEST people were unlikely to be members. After some study, he had chosen Santa Maria of the Desert, a quiet, out-of-the-way place where he was likely to avoid notice.

After waiting in line behind several middle-school kids, undoubtedly confessing such horrible sins as looking at their neighbor's answers on a pop quiz or lusting after the latest teen heartthrob, it came his turn.

"Father, forgive me for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession." He enumerated his misdeeds over that time without excuse, including his lack of charity for the changeling, and accepted his penance without complaint. Then he asked for advice. "Father, I'm not sure what to do about this. They've got an adult Sidhe on the base, and I don't know what she's told them, but they just don't want to understand how dangerous this is. They're letting the kid run loose with the other children. It's like watching a train wreck happen, and not being able to do anything about it."

"This adult Sidhe—I believe she was here with Optimus Prime just a few hours ago, if it's the same woman. About 5'4, long white hair, light gray eyes, jumped off the back of his trailer like she was stepping off a curb-?"

"That's the one," Treadwell said. "And what's more, she admitted to the Cybertronian medic on base that she's the White Devil of Magdeburg."

"Can they truly live that long?"

"Oh, yes. They absolutely can."

There was a very long moment of tense silence on the other side of the confessional screen. Then the priest said, "Oh, my goodness. My son, may I have your permission to speak of the White Devil—and only of the White Devil—to the bishop's office?"

"Of course, Father. Do you think they'll do something?"

"I don't know. But _I_ don't know what to do about it, and the Church has trained people who deal with these things all the time. I think we should put it in their hands."

"Yes, Father."

"Meanwhile, my son, keep an eye on both of them and keep me informed so I can pass it up the line, but don't do anything unless it's an emergency. Maybe we can get the boy taken into custody for his own good, but the woman, now, that's a different story. If she really is the White Devil, I'm afraid they have no idea what they've taken into their midst."

"Father, do you know of any difference between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts?"

"None that I know of, as I understand it, it's just politics between their different kingdoms. They're all fae, and they all follow the same pagan religion. They're all witches."

"I see. Unless something out of the ordinary happens, it probably would be better if I don't come back here except during regular hours."

"That makes sense. Be careful, my son."

"Thank you, Father."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sideswipe finished repairing a nick in one of his swords, and subspaced the weapon. The commons was quiet, Ratchet and Parker were talking near the medbay entrance and the Sisters, Sarah Lennox and Monique Epps were discussing the upcoming Halloween party. Everyone else was out and about, and the clan bond was placid, reflecting only business as usual.

He felt a sense of peaceful enjoyment from Sunstreaker—his twin was undoubtedly painting, or more likely up at the site deciding what to paint, since some of the rooms were far enough along to make those plans. For the last week, their room had been littered with datapads full of images of the Anasazi cliff dwellings and other indigenous artwork. Yesterday, Sunny had gone to the reservation to talk to the owner of an art gallery there.

Sides had asked, "What's all this about?"

That innocent question had launched an excited description of Southwestern art forms and traditions, in far more detail than Sides had ever wanted to know. But, more important than the words was Sunny's deep respect for the artworks of these people. Something had finally clicked, and broken through Sunny's aversion to organics.

Common ground, shared with organics long dead and living still. He had a grand idea for combining traditional Cybertronian crystalline art forms with the colors and materials traditional to the people who had lived here for generations.

Barricade came in the front door with the trine. As usual Song was balanced on his shoulder and her brothers flew along beside Barricade and his precious cargo. The quartet detoured to the energon cabinet, and once the little ones had finished their breakfast, they hurried over to the children's area to join their playmates.

Barricade saw that no one else was waiting for a cube, and secured the cabinet. Only enough energon for the day's needs was kept inside, in a cabinet designed to contain any possible accidental ignitions. The rest were out in the sun where they could produce more.

Sides raised a servo. "Morning, Cade."

"Sides." Cade came over and sat on a nearby couch—actually, more sprawled than sat. They'd gone at it hard at the proving grounds the evening before. Cade had finally reached a point in his recovery where Ratchet had taken him off all restrictions, so he was free to find his new limits and learn how to push them without landing back in medbay. Today, he was sore, but it was a good soreness, not the pain of an injury but that of gaining ground. He would take it easy today, and be ready to train hard again tomorrow.

Sides asked, "How's the hip?"

"Not bad. I need to work on range-of-motion, but it's just sore, it doesn't really hurt that much. Ratchet said to expect it for a while. I don't need to go back to him for it unless I start getting serious error messages."

"That's good. This is where I always have trouble teaching those particular forms. Being a skater makes it just that much more different."

"Yeah, you're always moving, it's a different kind of balance. I've been watching the humans, though. They do almost the same move. I think I've figured out what I need to do, just need to work out how to do it. Can't just lock my joints and absorb the impact anymore, I gotta learn how to conduct it to the ground."

"Or redirect it-turn it back, that's the best thing. Primus, I miss Prowl. He was so fraggin' good at diffusion, I wish I'd paid more attention while I had the chance."

Cade said, "Yeah, he was. Put me through a building one time in the ruins of Praxus. He was down there trying to salvage some stuff and I happened on him at just the wrong moment. I don't know if you knew it but my parents were clan to his parents somehow, we both had lots of the same connections back in Praxus even though I was from Kaon and he was from Iacon. We traded some trash talk—well, mostly that was me, but you know how he could put you in your place without really talking trash himself? Then I took a swing at him—next thing I knew, I was across the street, clear through a building, and lying in the alley on the other side. I still don't know how he did it, but it was all my attack redirected against me. I got out of there, and never messed with him again."

Sideswipe laughed. "That sounds like ol' Prowler, all right."

"Hey, can I ask you something? Is Bumblebee that Witwicky kid's Guardian?"

"Yeah, I thought everyone knew that."

"Well, I didn't, and—it was different with the 'Cons. You had active Guardian protocols, then Megs had better be your Charge. He'd have Sounders check and make sure."

"So how did you hide the little guys?"

"It wasn't easy. I did have protocols that were fixed on Megs, but they were secondary to the sparklings. There was no reason for him to ever suspect, unless he'd tried to hurt the kids, then the slag woulda hit the rotary air displacement device. But he never did, thank Primus."

"For real."

"But my point is, Prime doesn't object to his warband having commitments like that?"

"No, I mean, Pit, Sunny and I have never made any secret of being twins, and then there's Arcee and Flare, and Skids and Mudflap. It affects tactics, sure, but sometimes in a good way."

"Huh. Then I could join up, even with the kids?"

"Sure, as far as that goes. Nobot expects you to while they're small, though. I mean, I can't guarantee you'd get in, but having previous bonds is no problem."

Barricade nodded, watching the kids, human children and Cybertronian sparklings alike, settling down for their daily ration of Sesame Street. A sleepy little girl with a pink blanket crawled over to Skysong and curled up with her head in Song's lap. Song arranged the blanket over her, very careful with her taloned servo.

Sides followed his gaze. "You know, you don't automatically have to join up right now. I mean, the war's over and we have a lot of fighters. If you'd rather concentrate on raising the sparklings, I don't think anyone would disagree with you. It's all what you want to do. The important thing is, what do you want?"

Barricade almost glitched. Having the ability to make a real choice based on what was right for him and his family—and knowing that the Autobots would respect his choice, respect _him_, no matter what he chose—it was almost too much. That was all he really had ever been fighting for, he thought. In the beginning, when "the cause" had actually meant something, Barricade had been drawn into the fight by the lack of choices available to mecha of his class and caste. Fighting had seemed the only option to a young mech who saw no good outcomes in his future, no matter what he did, and no way to better his family's situation. Looking back, he wasn't sure at what moment Megatron had turned from a freedom fighter to a tyrant, or when he himself had turned from a revolutionary into a...whatever he had been...a merc fighting for his next cube of energon, he supposed.

But this, _this,_ was what he had signed on with the Decepticons to fight for: a future where every mech and femme had choices not already determined for them by arbitrary values like the caste they were sparked into. It existed here, like a new spark waiting for its first frame, and glitches like Soundwave threatened to extinguish it before it could grow. To take all those choices away from his children. He had to make sure that never happened.

Putting that into words wasn't easy, but somehow he realized he just had: for himself, at least. To cover his confusion and relief, he asked, "What about you, Sides, why did you decide to fight?"

"Just never decided to stop. Sunny and I were seized into slavery as younglings to satisfy our cohort's debts. We were bought by a stable of gladiators, and that's where we were until the Autobots rescued a couple of prisoners and got all of us out as well. We were grateful that they'd freed us. But we were gladiators, trained killers. The only skill we had to offer was fighting. Only, with the 'bots we were fighting to make things better, rather than risking our sparks to make our owners richer."

Barricade said, "Yeah, I can see that."

"Prime won't let you join up until Ratchet signs off," Sides observed.

"Makes sense."

"Think about it, Cade. You got your whole life to be a soldier. Those sparklings are only going to be little once."

Barricade grunted. Sideswipe was right...but there were still 'Cons out there all the same.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(The Underhill)

Jason stood at a balcony rail overlooking the street below. The size of the cavern these mansions were built in boggled his mind. He kicked himself for still comparing everything to _The Lord of the Rings_ movies, but this did look sort of like Moria, with everything carved from the stone.

The street between was narrow, full of traffic as the Unseelie and their human slaves went about their daily business. There were no motorized vehicles, and no electricity, only carts pulled by small ponies and burros.

There were more people around than humans and Sidhe, though the other races were much fewer in number. Little people only two or three feet tall, dressed only a little better than the human slaves. Arithor had informed him that they were called brownies, and they, as fae folk, were freeborn, though lower in status than the Sidhe. The frightful redcaps were the men-at-arms of the Unseelie Knights. Sometimes he caught glimpses of dark-cloaked figures in shadowed corners, and his first thought was drug dealers—whatever they were, and whatever their business was, he decided was best left alone.

Arithor was Unseelie, but far below Alsarith and Nianon in rank, as well as below Jason himself, he gathered, from the way most people bowed when they saw him.

Jason had almost despaired of ever getting home when he had learned he was in the Underhill, not even on Earth anymore. But they had brought him here. He could get back the same way. He just had to find out how.

He went back inside; it was almost time to dress for the midday meal, and woe betide him if his birth mother found a hair out of place. Fortunately, there were servants who made sure he passed muster before Nianon saw him.

Dinner that night was perfectly grilled filet mignon, a salad consisting of greens brought in from who knew where and several kinds of very tasty mushrooms, and finally a rich custard with a sweet cream sauce. He chose to drink milk instead of very much wine, which his Sidhe family did not think was at all odd—milk was a delicacy for them.

Jason could not truly enjoy his meal, though, because he had to be so careful to use the right utensils and make the expected responses to the dinner conversation.

Alsarith and Nianon presided over a trade empire, and Jason had been horrified to learn that much of their income came from the slave trade. Terrified, he kept his opinions to himself, but he had developed some very strong ones about these people. He did not, and never would, belong here.

Alsarith asked Arithor, "Is he ready to begin arms training?"

"I see no reason why not, milord. He is strong and sound. But I defer, of course, to the Lady Morithel's expertise in that."

"Of course," Alsarith replied. "I have arranged for her to evaluate him. You will take him there after we have eaten."

"Yes, milord."

Jason was sick and tired of these people talking about him as if he weren't even in the room, but he had gathered that until he proved himself a proper Unseelie son, he wasn't really a person to them.

End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Morithel's household was on the other side of the city, in what Jason learned was called the Warriors' Quarter. He soaked up every detail of the city along the way, from the marketplace to the temples to the teeming shantytown where the human slaves lived.

The Warriors' Quarter was filled with activity of other sorts. Groups of men-at-arms passed by on patrol, and once he and Arithor made way for a band of mounted knights on their way out of the city. Jason's eyes almost bugged out of his head when he got a good look at the so-called horses that the knights were riding—they had fangs, and claws rather than hooves!

"What _are_ those things?"

"Nixies—water horses! The wild ones were known for tricking people into thinking they had found a stray horse, then drowning and eating them. These have been hand-raised by their riders since they were foals. They are tame only so far as their own riders are concerned. Everyone else had best stay well away from them."

Jason nodded, and made a note to take that advice to heart.

Arithor led him through the narrow, twisting passages of the Warriors' Quarter until they came to a heavy gate. Arithor spoke to its guard, who let them pass. The gate closed behind them, shutting out the noise and bustle of the street.

Two human women were sweeping the flagstone courtyard that lay within the gates. On two sides, a stone building rose three stories to the cavern roof. The other sides of the structure were the cavern walls themselves. Cave openings and doorways opened into the courtyard, with stairs leading up to openings on higher levels. Several oil lanterns provided light, but it wasn't the bright electric light that Jason was used to.

They crossed the courtyard to a ground-floor entrance near the cavern wall, and took a turn inside that led back into the mountain. Down a set of stairs was a large room that Jason immediately recognized as a dojo of some kind. Inside, a woman wearing her long black hair in a warrior's braid, which was itself bound into an intricate knot on top of her head, stood testing the balance of a throwing knife which a craftsman had brought for her inspection. She turned in a fluid motion and threw the knife at a target—it hit dead center with a loud "thunk."

Morithel said, "Excellent. They are quite satisfactory. My servant will bring your payment this afternoon."

"Yes, milady. Thank you for your patronage. It is an honor to craft a blade for one so skilled as yourself."

"Such fine work makes skill come easily," she replied. The craftsman bowed his way out of the room.

Morithel turned to her new visitors. "Welcome, Arithor. And who have you brought me?"

"This is the young Lord Evanon of Nightmist House, milady. Lord Alsarith would know his potential as a swordsman, if you have the time to test him."

"For Alsarith, I shall make the time," she replied courteously. "You may go. Retrieve him in two hours' time."

"Yes, milady." Like the craftsman, Arithor bowed his way out.

Jason felt his knees trembling as Morithel inspected him.

"Have you any training, lad? Sword, knife, bow...?"

"Yes, milady. I have trained a little with the sword, but mostly unarmed."

"Choose a sword." She indicated a weapons rack, it held an assortment of well-used and equally well-maintained blades with blunted tips and edges. Like a bokken, these weapons were safer for novices to practice with, but were still to be respected. He gravitated toward a small selection of sabers, closest to the hwando that he had used a few times, under his sensei's watchful eye. He was still very much a beginner, but he did know how to choose a blade of the proper weight and length for his height.

"Show me your stance."

Jason did as he was told. _This_, at last, was something familiar.

The Queen's Champion circled him, watching him critically. "You have been taught beginning forms?"

"Yes, milady."

"Show me."

Jason stepped out onto the practice mat and took a deep, centering breath, then bowed before beginning the form. He had to concentrate on every step, mindful of his balance and posture—those things had yet to become second nature to him as they were to a more skilled swordsman. Morithel said nothing, but Jason knew she was making a list of everything that needed improvement—which, he was afraid, would be everything.

When he sheathed the sword and bowed again, Morithel nodded. "You have a good grounding in the basics. Forms competition is a common form of entertainment in Her Majesty's court, and one of the best ways to learn technique. But technique alone will not keep you alive in a real fight. Technique teaches you only that, if your opponent does _this, _you must do _that _in reply."

"Yes, milady. This is what my master told us, also. I know that I am only a beginner. My school uses a system of colored belts to show progress, and I just earned my green belt" —he saw a question form in her eyes, and added, "the third degree of sixteen—a little while ago. It takes many years of study to earn a black belt, and many years more than that to become a master."

"Boy, in the years one of your human masters attained the highest rank possible and died of old age, one of our people might begin to learn a new form. Humans are crippled by their lifespan. Their years simply do not permit them to attain true expertise."

Jason's first thought was that the Sidhe, who thought they had all the time in the world, might not be in any hurry to learn. But it didn't really make any difference. He would learn all that he could while he was here. But there was no use starting to think in Sidhe terms. He was going home.

Morithel took up her practice blade. "There are customs surrounding swords which have the force of law here. You have seen your parents wearing swords. Every noble does; it is the mark of our rank. Commoners may carry a dagger, and slaves may not even touch a fighting blade. Once you have demonstrated sufficient skill, you will wear yours as well, and you will be prepared to use it because everyone around you is. You are expected to be ready to defend the Queen at any time, and to be loyal to your house—but sometimes loyalty to one's house can mean taking power within it. There are those of lesser rank than you who will not be happy with your return. Have you met your cousins yet?"

"No, madam—I mean, milady."

"They are your lady mother's nieces, and her heirs in your absence. If you were to go missing, they would profit greatly. They have worked hard to gain your mother's favor, for some changelings do not survive their time in the human realms. Your return no doubt irks them to no end."

Jason gulped. He hadn't known he had cousins, or that they wanted him out of the will! "Yes, milady."

"Give no insult, but let none stand. Better to best another by your wits, but if you must draw a blade, then do so. In this society, the weak serve the strong. If others see a weakness in you, they will make use of it. The rights you have are those you can defend. Trust is a precious thing here—do not give it away lightly."

"That is good advice, Lady Morithel."

"Now, let us see what you can do in a sparring match. You say that you have trained hand-to-hand. Very well, we will begin with that."

They put their swords aside, and Jason spent the next hour and a half repeatedly getting twisted into a pretzel and knocked on his ass. But it was worth it, because every time Morithel defeated him, she showed him what he had done wrong, and how to correct it. He thought she was pleased that she never had to show him the same thing more than twice. Her style was different from traditional tae kwon do, but she was skilled enough to help him adapt to the differences. By the time the session ended, he was bruised and exhausted, but no worse than after a lesson in his own dojang.

Morithel tossed him a towel from a stack on one of the benches which surrounded the mat, and indicated a water jug. Jason nodded thanks and took a long drink of the cold water.

"Have your parents started teaching you magic yet? Do you know your element?"

"No one has said anything about it yet," Jason replied.

"You need to find out. Beyond the very basic level, Sidhe rarely fight without magic."

"How do I do that?"

"You will have a magic tutor, if neither Alsarith nor Nianon wishes to teach you."

"Yes, milady."

"Where is that Arithor? He should be here to escort you home by now. Beanie!"

The slave entered through a side door a few moments later. "Yes, Mistress?"

"Get Keswin or Berold in here to escort the young lord."

"Yes, Mistress."

Soon Keswin, a slender fellow with a narrow, pointed nose and a shifty look in his eyes, came in. "Your girl said you wished for my presence, milady. How may I serve?"

"See to it that Lord Evanon gets home safely, then find that ne'er-do-well Arithor and tell him if he does this one more time, I will be having a discussion with Lord Alsarith about his dereliction."

"Yes, milady."

Sword training was an everyday thing after that, and Jason was glad to have at least one familiar thing in his life. He was homesick, and lonely, and both of those things were getting worse instead of better.

The fourth day, things took a sinister turn. After the warning from Morithel, Arithor was conscientious about picking Jason up on time, but often took his time getting his young charge home. That fourth day, Arithor took him to a dark, smoke-filled tavern, where he discovered the local ale. It wasn't the first alcohol Jason had drunk, he had sneaked a drink or two from the liquor cabinet when his parents weren't looking and had contraband beer now and then with his friends. But this stuff did not taste good and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what was in it. There was a man playing a guitar-like instrument, though, and the music was interesting. Arithor had been gone for several minutes before Jason noticed.

He asked a serving wench, "Where is the necessary?"

She pointed out the appropriate corridor, and he made his way over there, careful not to bump into anybody or do anything else that an opportunistic person could take as an insult.

The corridor was even darker than the main part of the tavern, but Jason heard a girl giggling. He approached carefully, thinking that if Arithor had left him in the tavern while he visited a hooker, the old man was going to be pissed when they got back.

He ducked into a doorway as someone opened the kitchen door and light spilled out into the hall. Arithor was down there, with a red-headed Sidhe girl. Jason waited until they went into a room, then went back to his table and stayed there until Arithor came back for him.

That evening at dinner, he was finally introduced to his cousins, and the elder, Tanithe, was the girl that Arithor had been dallying with in the tavern. Jason felt a sense of ice-cold horror. His cousin, who had good reason to want him out of the way, was having an affair with his bodyguard.

He needed to get the hell out of here yesterday, before he had some kind of an "accident."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

After a mostly sleepless night spent wondering if his cousin or Arithor would sneak into his room with a dagger, Jason got out of bed early the next morning and dressed quickly.

He didn't know how he had been brought here. He needed to find out what kind of magic or superhero powers or whatever had been used to get him out of New York, and what he had to do to get back there. If that wasn't a likely way out, then he needed a plan B, but the strong feeling he had was, if he didn't get out of here soon somehow, he'd be leaving in a pine box. No one was coming to his rescue, so Jason figured he needed to rescue himself. He was afraid, though, if he ran away into the caves surrounding the city, he'd never find a way to get home.

He was scared, he had been _terrified_ since waking up here, but finding out that people were scheming to kill him, in order to get their dirty paws on an inheritance that he didn't even want? He was less scared than he was pissed off. Why the hell they couldn't have just left him in New York in the first place, he didn't know.

He swallowed all that and put on his game face. If Dear Cousin and her boyfriend realized he was onto them, they'd move up the schedule. He had to play dumb, and he decided that coming out of his shell as a wide-eyed kid who was curious and asked questions about everything would give him a chance to ask the questions he really needed to without making anyone suspicious. And he thought he might have more luck asking Morithel than his birth parents.

Finding out how he had been brought here took another nerve-wracking two days. He finally decided to ask Arithor—in the middle of a list of other annoying questions. Arithor gave him a "don't you know _anything"_ eye roll, apparently having forgotten that, at some point, he had been a returned changeling also. His bodyguard explained, "There are gates between the Underhill and all sorts of places, and some of them go to Earth."

"And other places?"

"Well, of course. The Corridor of Gates is a crossroads."

"What other places are there besides Earth and the Underhill? I shall bet you have been to a lot of them, being my father's retainer."

Arithor puffed up. "Of course I have. There are several dimensions that were colonized by the Sidhe when the Great Ice covered Earth. There are Lyonesse, and Avalon, for examples, where your father has many trade interests, and the lands of our distant kin, the Scandinavian elves. Then there is Tir nan Og, ruled by the Seelie Court, and their queen and her consort, Titania and Oberon. They are our enemies, we have been fighting with them for thousands of years."

"What kind of stuff do we trade?"

"Mithril, for one. It is extremely valuable. Various foodstuffs which we cannot grow in the Underhill. Any kind of wood. Outgoing trade goods are mushrooms, spidersilk, crafted items of course, no matter where the raw materials came from, stone and metals. Your father is the greatest slaver in the city, though. The most highly trained and beautiful slaves in the kingdom come from his stables, as well as workers, and men-at-arms like redcaps."

Jason had already known that, so he swallowed his horror and asked, "Where do redcaps come from? I never saw anything like them on Earth."

"Nevertheless, that is where they came from."

"Really? H'mm. Can you see through the gates into the other side?"

"Surely, when they are open," Arithor told him. "They look rather like a chevalier mirror, only instead of your reflection, you see what is on the other side of the gate."

"I should really like to see that. I mean, I did not even know there were other places besides Earth until I came home."

Arithor grinned. "I have to pick up shipments every now and then. You can come with me, but if I do you this favor, you must carry the shipment for me."

Jason grinned and tried to act like an eager puppy rather than a successful gambler. "Oh, that is great! I will be glad to! But will my parents not be upset if I am late?"

Arithor shrugged. "Not if I tell them that you were helping me and learning the business," he replied glibly.

Jason figured his guard's only concern was getting someone to carry things for him, but he went along with it happily. Once he knew where the gates were, he was one step closer to figuring out how they worked.

When the next shipment arrived, they left the Warrior's Quarter for the Queen's Quarter, a glittering display of palaces and other government edifices, the Grand Temple, and the upscale business establishments. Arithor led him to a well-guarded gatehouse, designed to defend against an army approaching from either side. A soldier challenged them, and Arithor identified them. The soldier bowed to Jason and let them pass.

Inside, a corridor two football fields long was full of traffic. Along both sides, interspersed with trade offices and customs houses, were the gates. Groups of wizards worked around them, and for a few moments Jason was the wide-eyed kid he was pretending to be. Through every one of those large oval openings was a different planet or dimension. Only one was Earth.

They made way for a large group of blue-skinned people carrying tridents and large bundles of trade goods. Jason could only stare until Arithor told him, "Close your mouth before you catch flies!"

Jason snapped his jaw shut. "Those people are blue! Where are there blue people?"

"Those are Undines, from the seas around the Isle of Lyoness. They were originally half-bloods, a cross between humans and some fae race from...somewhere. They migrated from Earth when the Great Ice came and the seas became too cold for them. Now, they are just another breed of lesser fae."

"Did all these people originate on Earth?"

"No, we Sidhe, and many other fae species, originated in Tir nan Og. And now, the Seelie deny us our homeland."

"I thought the Underhill was our home."

"We colonized these caverns long ago. Queen Medb has ruled here for thousands of years. But once there were no Seelie and Unseelie, only the Sidhe, in Tir nan Og. Look, there is one portal to your Earth."

"Looks like the inside of a cave."

"Most of these portals do open into some underground space. It offers concealment, security and protection from what can often be severe weather extremes."

"And you can walk right through?"

"No, the guards would stop you if you tried to go through without paying the fee."

Jason was familiar with the penalties for jumping turnstiles in the subway back home. That didn't mean he'd never done it. "What is on the other side? I mean, outside of that cave?"

"A desert. Horrible place. You bake in the daytime and freeze all night. There are poisonous reptiles and insects everywhere. But it is about two days' walk from one of their cities, and that city is a popular place to go gambling and carousing. Best to take someone who has a water or air affinity along, though—otherwise, it is much too miserable to travel through that desert."

"You mean Las Vegas?"

"Yes. I have been there once. It was an interesting place, for something built by humans."

"I have never seen it, only on TV."

"What is TV?"

"Umm...moving pictures? I have no idea how to explain it. If you were there once, you know the box in the hotel room, you turn it on and you can watch stuff."

"Oh, that. I thought it was charmed."

"No, it is all science."

"Are you sure their science is not some form of primitive magic? Some humans can work a few spells, but nothing of that magnitude."

"This is not, I am fairly sure."

"I would wager that it is. Technology rarely goes further than levers and wheels without some sort of charm involved. Those beasts are little better than apes. Someone must be charming things for them."

Diplomatically, Jason said, "Maybe so. I have never seen a television factory, after all."

Arithor nodded, then jerked his head. "This way, our shipment is coming through another gate."

They passed more gates, and Jason did his best to look through every one of them. Through most of them, there was little to see, only the stone walls of a cave. One, though, was carved stone, the walls covered with runes in some language he did not recognize at all. In another the walls looked like polished black glass, with occasional wisps of acrid dark smoke drifting out. Through yet another, he could see the mouth of the cave, rimmed with thick icicles, and beyond, ice barrens stretched as far as the eye could see.

Some were blocked by heavy gates, often thrumming with such magical power that Jason's skin prickled as they passed by. "Wh-what is in there?"

"Not all the gates open to friendly places," Arithor replied. "Most of them are environments that would be deadly to us. Some have no air, or are underwater. For those, there are two gates. Others are otherwise unpleasant. But still, they are somehow useful to us, so that Her Majesty has ordered them secured rather than sealed."

"Wow," Jason said, and he didn't have to fake his enthusiasm.

Near the other end of the hall, they met a tall, skeletally thin man wearing a hooded cloak. The hood was pulled down to conceal his face, and from it his eyes occasionally glowed like those of a cat or dog—this where no lights were angled to reflect from them.

Jason edged away as the stranger and Arithor haggled over a large backpack. Jason didn't know what was in it and didn't care, so long as it was as heavy as it looked.

When Arithor and the stranger had finished their conversation, Jason cheerfully asked, "Are we ready? I am looking forward to dinner!"

"Yes, we are ready."

Jason swung the pack over his right shoulder, pretending it weighed much less than it did. Then he headed back. He found a couple of things to ask questions about, and as they neared the portal that he knew went to Earth, he pointed out a group of scantily clad slave girls guarded by several husky, well armed men. He whistled softly. "Get a load of that!"

Arithor turned around and his eyes about bugged out of his head. Pretending to ogle the girls, Jason "bumped into" him, and Arithor tripped on the pavement in front of one of the soldiers, causing the man to step away to avoid him.

"Hi! Ye whelp, watch where ye put yer clumsy feet!"

Arithor caught his balance and said, "Mind your place, cur, or I shall see what price your master puts on your mangy hide!"

"Do that, young master, and watch me tell him how ye fell on yer face starin' at his best string o' fillies like any common guttersnipe," the guard rumbled.

Jason maneuvered to the back of the crowd that gathered. The gate guard was distracted by the altercation; he was even more distracted when Jason let the pack's straps slide down his arm to his hand and swung it into the guard's midsection with all his might. Jason dived through the portal, hit the ground running, and charged through the cave.

Once he got away from the dim light provided by the portal behind him, it was pitch black, but the path away from the gate was worn smooth between rounded rocks. They were big enough to break his ankle if he misstepped into them. His need for speed vied with the need to stay on the worn path.

It took a few minutes for pursuit to be organized, but it wasn't long until Jason heard shouts behind him. He ran faster than common sense would have allowed in the dark, and prayed he wouldn't take a wrong step.

He hit his arm on the cave wall, and bit his tongue till it bled to keep from making noise.

A dim light ahead of him spurred him to greater effort. He burst out onto a path through a narrow twisting canyon—and when he looked behind him, he couldn't see the cave mouth. More magic. There was no time to worry about that now.

Jason started down the path and ran for all he was worth, looking for somewhere to hide. He was in the middle of nowhere, with no water or any other supplies, and he didn't know which way was which. But he decided it was better to take his chances in the desert than get dragged back to the Underhill.

He came out of the canyon and looked around. There were lights in the distance. Lights meant people, so he started running that way. It was dark, which would make it harder for the Sidhe to follow him, so he raced as fast as he could.

A fence loomed up out of the darkness, and Jason threw on the brakes, barely avoiding falling into it; he was afraid it was electrified. He ran alongside it, and came to a highway.

The lights were those of some kind of little store across the highway from a military base. A sign on the fence marked the place Top Secret with warnings that trespassing was not allowed and that guards were authorized to use force against unauthorized personnel.

Wasn't Area 51 supposed to be somewhere around Vegas? Maybe that's where he was. If so he didn't want to get shot for poking around in the wrong place! He ran around to the back of the store, hoping to get in somewhere without being spotted, but the back door was locked.

He climbed onto a dumpster, jumped from there to grab the edge of the roof, and hauled himself up. Then he lay flat and tried not to even breathe.

After a while, a man drove up and parked, then let himself in the back door. A few minutes later, he came back out with a woman in a sari, and the couple kissed before she got in the car and drove away. Once again, the door shut and locked.

There was sporadic traffic on the road, much of it going in or out of the base, and as often as not, it was an odd assortment of civilian vehicles rather than the army trucks and Humvees he was expecting to see. Maybe it really _was_ Area 51!

Then he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the desert night, and lay as flat on the roof as he could, not daring to look over the edge. He heard rattling around the dumpster, and tensed—the first head that poked over the roof was getting a boot in the face.

But then the back door banged open and a no-nonsense, Indian-accented voice shouted, "Hey! Get out of my dumpster!" The next sound was a shotgun pump.

Nobody argued with that. They took off.

Jason knew they wouldn't go far. He had to get out of here.

A few minutes later, a military truck grumbled to a halt nearby, and he heard the doors slam. It was one of the really big ones, with a canvas cover over the bed. Jason couldn't see anyone in the cab. The soldiers must have gone inside the store.

He dropped onto the dumpster—and slipped off! Fire shot up his leg as he landed, he had to bite his hand to keep from screaming out loud at the sudden pain. He looked, and at least there weren't bones sticking out, but the pain made his eyes water as he staggered to the back of the truck. He hauled himself inside, trying hard not to jar his ankle anymore.

He prayed the soldiers would come back before the Sidhe did, and sobbed with relief as that prayer was answered. The truck went across the road and into the base.

He couldn't go around the army buildings, he'd be caught. But the truck was going too fast to jump out. He almost panicked, but then the truck pulled into an area where he could see a sign that said "Proving Ground."

The soldiers unloaded soda pop and juice boxes and some other snacks, and stacked them on shelves inside a small building. Jason rolled out of the truck, careful to land on his good leg, and hid behind a trash can. When the soldiers left, Jason went inside and found a garbage bag, which he stuffed with snacks and water bottles. Then he left the area as fast as he could hobble, looking for somewhere to hide.

That turned out to be in some rocks near a side trail. There would be traffic—guard patrols, probably, but if he kept his head down and didn't move around too much he should be able to hide up here and rest his ankle for a while. If it was broken, he was out of luck. He'd have to surrender to the soldiers when his water ran out, if he couldn't steal more from the supply shed, and just hope they wouldn't use him for an experiment or something. Or lock him in jail for the rest of his life. But maybe his ankle was only twisted, and would get better if he stayed off it.

He hadn't realized how exhausted he was until he found a good place to rest and lay down in the sand. Not even the fear of the snakes and bugs that Arithor had mentioned could keep him awake for long, once he realized he had lost the Sidhe, at least for now.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Burnout sighed, and turned away from Optimus Prime's office for the fourth time. Somehow, he simply could not bring himself to volunteer to be an acolyte.

His own spark, he felt, needed cleansing; he himself needed forgiveness. And that he could not find within himself.

End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Come in, Father."

"Your Excellency," the priest said, bowing and kissing the ring. He took the chair the other man gestured toward, and declined coffee, already being quite nervous enough.

"You said you had something of great urgency to tell us," the bishop said. He was not mitered today, wearing a black suit and reversed white collar much like the priest's own.

In this cool, graceful, air-conditioned room, surrounded by books, the priest was no longer sure that his errand was so urgent, or even necessary. But if it was, and he failed to communicate it? He would be held responsible for that sin of omission, by his own soul, if not God's wrath.

And so the elderly man straightened his spine. "Bishop, a man whose confession I heard–he's not one of my regular parishioners–tells me that there is a fae living with the Transformers and their human contingent. I have since encountered this person, and I have reason to believe that that is true." He shifted in the comfortable chair, red as a cardinal's robes. "My penitent tells me that this person confirmed to one of the Transformers, who confirmed to him, that she is the White Devil of Magdeburg."

"Is she now." The bishop set his cup of coffee down. "Does he know that the reward has never been rescinded?"

"He did not speak of it. What reward?"

"Her weight in gold." The bishop, dismissing this trifle as a thing of the world and therefore not worthy of consideration, looked at the old man for a long moment. "You said you had encountered this woman, and that this encounter lead you to believe that she might indeed be the White Devil. Why, my son?"

The old priest hesitated, and the bishop saw his eyes go inward. Then he sighed, and said, "Bishop, I loathe having to use this new age term, but it was her aura."

"I understand the concept. It's sometimes quite difficult to deal with other religions, my son, when they have uncovered a piece of truth, which is both based in their idolatry and still true. So let us agree that human beings have auras. Let us also agree, for the sake of argument, that non-human beings have auras, which I do believe any exorcist will confirm."

"Yes, Your Excellency. ―Her aura was, quite simply, not human. She may not have a soul, or if she does it is fully possessed by a being unlike those which animate humans."

"I see." The bishop frowned at his blameless desk. "For the time being, my son, I will ask you to do nothing."

"But, Bishop!"

The bishop raised a hand. "Please, my son. There are wheels to be put in motion, you see. They grind slow but exceeding fine."

"Your Excellency." The old man bowed his head.

The bishop was glad for him to see that no sin of pride obtruded itself here, that this was an obedient son of the Church. "What else may I do for you today, my son?"

"That was all, Your Excellency."

"I see." The bishop rose, and the priest did also, puzzlement radiating from him.

The bishop blessed the man, and dismissed him. Then he sat at his desk, staring at nothing, for a solid ten minutes. At the end of that time, he picked up the telephone sitting on it, and said, "Father Dominic? Ring the cardinal for me, please. I'll hold."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The priest made his dusty way back to the parish of Santa Maria of the Desert, and ate his housekeeper's lunch with great preoccupation. An hour after that, he went into the confessional booth.

Forty-five minutes later, the man he had seen earlier returned, with four legal-sized sheets of paper, which he passed through the window of the confessional. He was, the priest noted, wearing gloves.

"You asked for these, Father. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned."

The comfort of routine and ritual closed in over the old man's head, and he did what he had been trained to do.

When the repentant hit man left the church and no other penitents entered the confessional, Father James glanced out to see if anyone else was waiting in the church. Not a soul.

He hurried outside as fast as his arthritic knees would carry him, hoping to catch the man before he left the grounds, and found him sitting on a bench in the churchyard.

As was customary, he said nothing about anything that had passed between them in the confessional. "My son, may I sit down?"

"Of course, Father...?"

"...James Grady."

"Tony Donelli," he replied. "Is there something I can do for you, Father?"

"I find myself in need of advice, but I can't talk about it here, where anyone could overhear."

"Walk with me, Father." Donelli knew two old men strolling through the church grounds, one of them a priest, would attract little attention as long as they kept their voices down. "What's all this about? What kind of advice can I give you...or anybody, for that matter?"

"I'm not sure...and I'm also not sure that you shouldn't walk away from me right now."

Tony thought about it. "I'll hear you out. If whatever you got in mind is a bad idea, I'll tell you so."

"Very well. It started yesterday afternoon, when Optimus Prime and a woman from the base brought some things for the homeless shelter's donation drive..."

He went on to tell the whole story, about what he had seen of Diarwen and what he knew about the incident in the camp outside Magdeburg. He left out what Treadwell had told him; that discussion had not been under the seal of the confessional but he considered it privileged nevertheless.

"I dunno, Father. I was a sniper in the military, and I gotta tell you, sometimes one shot at the right time could save a whole lot of our boys' lives over there. Be honest with both of us, those guys she killed, did they have it comin'? I mean, what would they have done if she hadn't took them out first?"

Father James thought that over. Until now he hadn't ever considered anything other than the history he'd learned in Catholic schools. But looking back at it now, with the wisdom of age, he found that he didn't have a good answer for that. He had never been a soldier, but Tony had. Who was to know what was right and wrong in the madness of war? "I guess...it was too long ago to ever really know the answer to that question. She's the only one who can testify to what happened back then."

"Well, then, maybe the bishop had the right idea. Live and let live. I don't see a good reason to do nothin' else."

"I know. Unless she got to the Bishop somehow before I spoke to him."

The man stared at the priest. Then he said, as if trying the words on for size, "That'd be the logical conclusion, wouldn't it? If she had the Bishop in her pocket, then she wouldn't have to worry about the Church."

"But what if I'm wrong?"

Donelli said, "There might be a way to find out. Now, there ain't no real 'truth serum' like you see in the movies. But if you dope somebody up enough, unless they're really well trained, they're more likely to talk than not. And the good thing is, when they sober up, they don't remember what happened."

"You think I should kidnap her and drug her?"

Donelli shook his head. "Not you, we. You ever kidnapped anybody before?"

"Well, no."

"If you botch things like that, people get hurt. If we get the job done right, and she didn't put a spell on the bishop or nothin', then we just dump her outside the emergency room and disappear. She won't be able to describe us, no harm, no foul, nobody gets hurt."

"What if she _did_ do something to the Bishop?"

"Then you got a decision to make. Look, I got nothin' to lose. If this goes sour, I'll turn myself in to the police, I don't care. You're the one in a bad position if it goes pear-shaped."

"At my age, I also have little to lose. You're sure that no harm will come to her if she's innocent?"

"Sure, Father. People on that junk, they're havin' the time of their lives, long as you ask 'em questions real quiet like, so you don't do nothin' to scare 'em and give 'em a bad trip. Druggies pay good money for a trip like that. Once won't hurt her."

"What do I have to do?"

"You leave that to me, Father. I don't want to get you mixed up with suppliers and people like that. You figure out where we can grab her, and I'll take care of how."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Soundwave was not sure whether he was more annoyed about Jazz' spiders, or the fact that the Autobot saboteur had escaped. Jazz' plan was fairly obvious, but that didn't make it any less effective: Soundwave needed a countermeasure. He could ignore most of the spiders, but eventually enough of them—the ones programmed to look for web cams and return an image—would get close, and have to be stopped.

The strategy of that countermeasure was to fight fire with fire. He sent out his own spiders, designed to report back to him if they detected Jazz' signature. He knew exactly where Jazz was—inside the Mission City base, behind enough dangerous intrusion countermeasures to give Soundwave pause at the prospect of a frontal assault. But their brief encounter had taught him that the Autobot was vulnerable if found outside his citadel. If one of Soundwave's spiders caught Jazz out in the open, the Decepticon would use it to mount an immediate attack. His spiders' other function, however, was to find and destroy those spiders belonging to Jazz, wherever they were on the Internet, and therefore prevent the Autobot from zeroing in on Soundwave's location.

This day the Decepticons met in the largest hangar after the human workers had gone home. Smith and Wilburn, as always, kept their mouths shut around the other 'Cons rather than provoke them. If they had anything to say, they'd say it to Soundwave in private. Warp, also, kept to himself.

The rest of them had plenty of complaints. Lugnut started off, "We need more energon. The days ain't long enough to fill the cubes all the way anymore, even cuttin' it with aviation gas. We need someplace down south to make energon."

Flatline objected, "We'd get spotted going back and forth. There's no sense having more energon if it's just going to get us caught."

Blitzwing's random personality was in charge today. "But we can't do anything interesting with the energon we have now! If we have even less, it's going to be _boring!"_

Lugnut said, "The squishies got us flyin' into Atlanta and LAX all the time. Why can't we make some energon while we're there?"

Flatline said, "'Cause the squishies would see the energon cubes and start asking questions, that's why!"

Soundwave spoke through a computer's sound system. "Enough. Quantity of cubes on hand: not sufficient to justify squabbling. Conclusion: must increase energon production capacity."

Lugnut asked, "How we gonna do that, boss?"

"Autobots: have numerous cubes. Additionally: energon stockpiles probably exist. Autobots' first priority in a raid: defend the sparklings and humans. Stockpiles: relatively unguarded."

"They could have their cubes and reserves anywhere on that base," Lugnut objected.

"Conclusion: incorrect. Satellite imagery of base: created during flash flood. Stockpile: located."

They knew the images of the flash flood, taken to assist the helo pilots in their rescue of Ironhide, existed—Lugnut got a big laugh out of his old adversary getting flushed downstream, and then getting pulled out by the squishies like an Earth fish on the end of a line. But they didn't know Soundwave had his virtual tentacles on images east and west of that one as the satellite tracked overhead.

Soundwave activated a monitor screen and put up an image of the erstwhile ammunition bunker where Burnout, Killstrike, and the tractor gestalt were currently living. Nearby, a lot of camo nets were tented over the insects' motor pool. These nets obscured whatever was inside from casual observation, though they had been obsolete versus human spy technology for many years, much less Cybertronian sensors. They were there primarily to give the humans some much-needed shade as they worked on their vehicles. However, one net flickered—it was only a hologram. And, as Soundwave processed the image to screen out the hologram, a flatbed trailer came into view beneath it—covered with square pink objects.

Lugnut asked, "How we gonna get to it, boss?"

Soundwave said, "Gathering of intelligence: in progress."

Blitzwing said, "We can have all the energon we want, and let _them_ go without!"

Flatline said, "If they catch sight of our alts, then we'll need a new hideout."

Soundwave said, "Soundwave: will keep copies of your current alt forms. Decepticons: will scan temporary alt forms for the raid."

"Boss," said Lugnut, awe in his voice, "you're amazin'."

"Soundwave: knows this. Departure: permitted when ready."

Blitzwing said, "I can't wait to be something cool again!"

Soundwave said, flatly (even for himself): "That: is forbidden. Temporary alt: must be speedy but inconspicuous. Compliance: required."

With Blitzwing muttering, "You're no fun," under his breath, they left to begin the work.

Soundwave wondered briefly what objections, if any, they would raise when he informed them that they were six weeks, at best, away from making a raid. Then he shrugged, or something like it. It didn't matter. They were loyal Decepticons.

That little warper, though…Soundwave missed only one part of having a frame: the telepathy mod. Warp was too silent, and his optics too aware.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Hanratty's Pub was quiet that evening, very much so for Las Vegas. One of the new casinos had a new show opening, and that had drawn most of the tourists, and quite a few of the regulars. Optimus was able to pull up right in front of the door to let Diarwen off, planning to find one of his favorite out-of-the-way parking spots nearby and listen to a few sets over comms. A few times, he had sent Roller into the bar with her because Diarwen wanted him to meet some of her friends there, but that tended to be the evening's entertainment, and the other musicians got irritated if they did it too often. He usually confined his visits to earlier hours when there would be little jingle in the tip jar in any case.

Sean Hanratty didn't care if Roller drew in a clientele more interested in giant robots than in traditional Irish music. Any kind of customer downed a few pints of stout, after all. He grinned as Diarwen came in alone. "Welcome, Diarwen! And good evenin' t' you too, Optimus, wherever y' are!"

Diarwen grinned. "Well met, Sean. Optimus sends his regards as well; he is a few blocks down in that parking garage."

"Oh, aye. Should be quiet there tonight, too. We have had a robbery or three in there, but I think the hooligans will take one look at him and move on."

"Right you are about that."

Sean wiped down the bar. "What can I get you tonight?"

"A pint of Murphy's, if you please. And have you the shepherd's pie?"

"I do, and fresh soda bread just came out of the oven a little while ago."

"Lovely!"

Sean leaned over the window into the kitchen to call in her order before pulling her pint of black, foamy heaven. "Sorry I can't offer you much of a crowd tonight."

"That is as well. It gives me a chance to try a few new tunes, and maybe jam a bit with some of the others. The tourists will be back Friday and Saturday."

"Aye."

Diarwen wet her throat gratefully while she waited for her meal, singing along with the audience when the song called for it. Down the bar, some men were having a good-natured college football argument. At the table just behind her, a woman had her tablet out, working online as she ate a bowl of stew, occasionally pausing to chat with Sean's daughter Molly, who was working her way through college waiting tables. As Molly brought the businesswoman another Irish coffee, two men in suits carrying briefcases came in and took over a corner table. They were regulars, local attorneys whose office was nearby.

An older man came in, sat at the opposite end of the bar from her, and ordered whiskey. As he took the shot glass that Sean poured for him and handed over a few singles to pay for it, Diarwen noted the faded blue prison tattoos on his right hand. Whatever he had once done to spend time in prison, though, the man was quiet enough now.

Diarwen's shepherd's pie came out, and she happily turned her full attention to that.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A few blocks away, Optimus found a good spot on the ground floor of a parking garage, in the only area where the ceiling was high enough to accommodate his alt mode. Smaller vehicles continued on up to the higher levels. With his lights off, he could go pretty much unnoticed among similar vehicles, but after overhearing Sean's remark to Diarwen about hooligans committing robbery in here, he made a point of attracting notice when such a group wandered through, sending them quickly on their way. Other than his proximity sensors, however, he had most of his attention on the music and a texted conversation with Diarwen, when she wasn't on stage.

Diarwen next noticed the ex-convict by his absence and texted, "My new jailbird friend has left."

Optimus replied, "Your jailbird friend?"

"Yes. A man sitting at the end of the bar had a prison tattoo on his hand. He has gone now."

"Was he bothering you?"

"Oh, no, not at all. He merely seemed a different sort than Sean's usual crowd."

"If you see him again, let me know. It would concern me if such a person seemed to be taking an interest in you."

"I believe myself capable of self-defense against one old man, ex-convict may he be."

"I believe so as well. It would concern me nevertheless."

A loud crash nearby almost startled him into an emergency transformation sequence. Just in time, he realized that the noise had been a minor collision between two non-sentient vehicles in the parking garage exit. As nearly as he could tell, a large black rental sedan had come in the wrong way and clipped fenders with an SUV trying to leave the garage. The drivers both got out, yelling and gesturing and finally exchanging insurance information, while a few more cars lined up behind the SUV, the drivers honking their horns.

One of them rolled down his window and shouted, "Can't you pull out of the way to do that?"

The bumpers were stuck together.

Since no one was hurt and the damage seemed minimal, Optimus returned his attention to the audio stream from the bar. Diarwen's last set had started, and she was singing her own cover of the country music standard, "Long Black Veil." It wasn't her usual style, and she was not sure how her listeners would receive it. But anything she sang took on a Hibernian flavor, and the tale of an innocent man going to his death rather than bring his married lover's honor into question could very well have been a Celtic invention. Optimus thought it was perfectly appropriate to the approaching Halloween season.

When Diarwen finished her song, someone brought her yet another pint, which she realized, after she took a long pull, was a boilermaker. Sidhe were resistant to alcohol, and tended to drink quite a bit, but she had not been expecting that.

Sean berated the idiot and apologized to Diarwen. "Black coffee, lass?"

"Ach, fresh air I think. As much as I hate to say it, I should be making an early night of it. There are things I need to be doing tomorrow, and I doubt Sarah will accept a hangover as an excuse to sleep late!"

Ordinarily Sean Hanratty would have had a lot more concern about an unaccompanied lady leaving the bar alone and drunk, and would have had the bouncer keep an eye on her until she got in a cab. But in this case, he knew Optimus would pick her up right out front.

The door closed behind her. She texted Optimus that she was ready to leave and set her harp case down on the pavement beside her while she waited for him to get out of the parking garage.

The night was pleasantly cool, more so than usual, and the fresh air was going a long way towards clearing her head, when she felt something sting her neck. She swatted at what she thought was a bee, but her fingers contacted a small, feathered...thing. She fumbled with it and tried to focus on it, but the pavement came up to meet her and everything went black.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus' patience was legendary, but when the argument between the two drivers went on for several minutes after Diarwen finished her last set and asked him to pick her up, he called the police. A patrol car came by, and the officer examined the cars. The veteran of several such incidents, he knew What To Do About It. He told the driver of the downhill car, "Put it in neutral and watch that you don't roll back out into traffic."

The cop studied the tangled bumpers again, then put his weight on the hood, bouncing the car. With a squeal, the bumpers came loose, and the two damaged vehicles were moved to the side.

The police officer took down the information of everyone who had seen the accident, and Optimus had to admit that he had not actually seen it, only heard it. Fortunately, the officer then let everyone who hadn't been involved in the accident go.

Optimus pulled up in front of Hanratty's and looked for Diarwen. All he saw was her harp case lying on the sidewalk near the entrance to the bar.

He parked, thinking that she had only stepped back inside for a moment, and texted, "I am here. I am sorry I kept you waiting, there was a fender-bender at the garage."

After a few moments, when there was no answer, he became concerned, and called Hanratty's.

"Hello, Hanratty's Pub, may I help you?"

"Sean, this is Optimus. Is Diarwen inside?"

"No, isn't she right outside the door waiting for you?"

"She is not. Her harp case is here but I see no sign of her," Optimus replied.

A moment later, Sean came out and picked up the case.

Optimus homed in on her phone's GPS signal. "Hold onto that for her, would you, Sean? Her phone is a few blocks up the street. It is odd that she left it, but she must have walked up there for some reason."

"I don't know why she would have, most of those businesses are closed this time of the evening. There's no reason for her to go up there."

Optimus rolled slowly up the deserted street. His sensors located the phone—lying in the gutter. The case and screen were cracked, so the device must have been thrown out of a car. Had someone stolen it, and Diarwen chased the thief? That made no sense.

Gaia pulsed distress, confirming his sense that something was wrong. Suddenly completely unconcerned that he might be overreacting, Optimus alerted the base and subspaced the phone, then searched the area, transforming to look over a fence into the construction site of a new casino.

By the time he was sure there was no sign of her, Mirage and Jazz had arrived to begin a meticulous search of the area, as well as the front of Hanratty's, with their much more sensitive detectors. Optimus began to cruise a wider search pattern, but he already knew it was going to be a wasted effort.

Improbable as it seemed, someone had kidnapped Diarwen.

Jazz confirmed that when he found a small dart on the sidewalk outside Hanratty's, containing traces of both iron-free blood and a fast-acting sedative. There were no fingerprints, or other DNA traces that he could detect, but he carefully subspaced the dart. The lab had much more sophisticated testing equipment than the mods in his frame. Then he told Optimus what he'd found.

At that point, the Prime notified Lennox and Mearing, and all of NEST went into action.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Lennox ordered the NEST troops to break into fire teams and assist with the search. He sent S13 to join Jazz at Hanratty's, since he remembered from the Indiana incident that Adele Hempstead would be able to gain the most information from an undisturbed crime scene. They also would know not to contaminate the scene for later investigation by the LVPD, if Mearing decided it was a matter for the civilian authorities.

He ordered his assistant, "Find AD Treadwell and tell him I'd like to see him ASAP."

"Yes, sir."

Less than ten minutes later, Treadwell knocked on his door, a little out of breath. At least, Lennox thought, the man had the same definition of "ASAP" that NEST went by. "You wanted to see me, Colonel?"

"Come on in. We've had an incident. Earlier this evening, someone kidnapped Diarwen from outside that Irish pub she goes to."

"Wait a minute, I've been here all day! You don't think I had anything to do with-?"

"I know exactly where you were," Lennox replied. "I also know you and your team have had Diarwen under surveillance ever since you got here, and she knew it too. Now, you can't watch someone that closely without seeing everything that goes on around her. Who else has been taking an interest?"

"I haven't seen anyone else watching her."

Lennox knew an evasion when he smelled one. "Treadwell, this is your last chance with me. Whatever else you know, you'd better spill it right now."

Treadwell took a deep breath, and hung his head as he decided where his loyalties lay. "I don't _know_ anything else. But the last time I went to confession, I asked the priest for advice about the Sidhe. He told me not to do anything. But he asked for my permission to tell the bishop about her. I told him he could."

Lennox' eyes flashed fury, but his tone of voice stayed cold as ice. "You and your people take Ironhide with you and go find that priest. I want to know if he had anything to do with this, or if he knows who did. And, Treadwell?"

"Yes, sir?"

"If you fuck this up any more than you have already, the least you can expect is my boot up your ass."

"Yes, sir."

Treadwell was no more than two steps outside Lennox' office door before he was on his cell with the rest of his team, telling them to meet him in the commons. At the same time, Lennox was putting Ironhide in the loop.

Ironhide was in his quarters with Chromia and Evanon when the alert had gone out. He had one of his cannons half-apart, cleaning it, so there was a short delay while he reassembled it before he could join the others. Chromia had joined her sisters and gone on ahead. He was replacing the last panel when Lennox called, and told him about Treadwell and the priest.

"Can't you throw him in the brig for that?"

"For going to confession? If so, that's a decision above my pay grade. If Mearing wants to lock him up, I'd be pleased to oblige her. Stupid son of a bitch. Keep an eye on him. I'm giving him an opportunity to fuck up. If he takes it, I want all of them _and _that priest back here for questioning."

"Patriot Act?"

"Stretchin' it, probably, but why the hell not? Restarting the Inquisition would be terrorism if anything is!"

Ironhide snorted an ex-vent. "You're going to do something that'll have me filling out reports for Prime _and_ your government for the next fraggin' vorn, aren't you?"

"If that's what it takes to put a stop to this bullshit on my base, you bet I am."

Hide chuckled. "I don't mind filling out reports in a good cause."

"Get her back here in one piece, brother."

"You know I will. I owe her a life debt, brother. If she's been harmed, I _will_ find the slagger who did it. Assuming that Prime doesn't find him first."

"Yeah. ...Hide... we want to prevent that if we can."

"Understood."

Ironhide turned to Evanon. "Evanon, somebody kidnapped Diarwen a little while ago. Drugged her with some kind of dart."

Evanon's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "I do not yet have the English words to describe the _insult_. That is—is—someone must be tired of living, to meet so with a Knight of Queen Titania's Own Guard!"

"A what?"

"How do I—ach. You serve as Champion to Optimus Prime, do you not? As his protector, his right hand?"

"Yeah, that's a pretty good way to put it. I'm his second."

"Well, that was Lady Diarwen to the Summer Queen. If one of the queens had challenged the other to single combat, it would have been the Ladies Diarwen and Morithel who actually fought that duel. She carried her queen's honor, am I saying this in a way that can be understood? This is an insult that—Goddess!"

Ironhide said, "My job's to get her home safe, then we'll worry about who got insulted. But this whole thing got started over some kind of human religious war that ended vorn ago. Whoever has it in for Diarwen might be after anybody else on the base too. I want you to go stay with the sparklings—and take your weapons with you. You might have to defend yourself, and them."

"It will be as you command." Evanon quickly buckled on his marshdrake jerkin and his sword.

Ironhide nodded. If Evanon was busy guarding the sparklings, he wouldn't be out getting himself into trouble. Not that Cade would let any slaggers get close enough to be a threat to the sparklings or Evanon.

Ironhide picked up Treadwell and the rest of S5 in the commons. They were uncharacteristically subdued—Ironhide was reminded of either set of twins caught with a servo in the high grade lockup. Lennox must have ripped an armor plate off Treadwell—exactly what Ironhide would have done if one of his mechs had fragged up so thoroughly.

Treadwell told him where to find the church. Unfortunately, the priest wasn't there, and no one at the rectory had seen him all day. His car was missing as well.

Ironhide said, "Didn't you say he was an old man? You don't think he _could _have kidnapped Diarwen, do you?"

"Normally, no, but if she was drugged..."

"What were you _processing_?"

Treadwell said, "I was concerned about Evanon. Changelings—those kids are raised as slaves, in a totally different culture. Then, when they're not useful anymore, they're just dropped off like garbage. By the time we get 'em back, they're messed up in the head, either criminals or victims. There was this one kid, Evanon's age, his grandfather took him in. He stabbed the old man in the back and stole his wallet, there was somethin' like ninety bucks in it. They tried him as an adult, he's spending the rest of his life behind bars. And then there was the other one, this cute little twelve year old who should've been still playing with dolls. Instead, whoever owned her had been using her for—she only knew one way to get what she wanted, and she didn't understand that she didn't have to do that here. The next door neighbor was all too happy to take advantage, by the end of the month she was pregnant. We got her into a home for troubled girls, and she's getting counseling while she waits for her baby to be born. She might have a chance now, at least. The other kid might have too, if they'd put him somewhere in the first place to get him the help he needed! Now, we've got Evanon, and no one wants to believe it, but you don't come through what he did without getting fucked up in the head!"

Ironhide hummed. "I wish you'd told me all this before, Treadwell. Might have saved us all a huge processor ache. Do you think that Evanon's the first fragged-up kid I ever met? The closest thing in your recent history to Cybertron after the fall of the Empire was Europe after World War II, or the Mideast, or parts of Africa. We pulled Sides and Sunny out of a gladiator pit. They were slaves, too. The little twins ran with a youth gang whose parents were all dead or disappeared. Bumblebee was the only survivor we found of the massacre of the youth sectors of Iacon. My clan has dealt with this before. Give me a little credit—I know how to keep him safe from himself 'til he figures out who he wants to be. The main thing is to show him he has a high value to himself, as well as to the rest of us. Let me tell you something else. He's had one too many people in his life lookin' at him like he's a thing instead of a person. If you don't quit doin' it, I'll personally kick you out of my cohort's space, and where you land is gonna be your problem."

Treadwell and his people were all quiet for a moment, then Treadwell asked, "What do we do now? I don't know where to start looking for Father Grady, since no one around the church or the rectory knows anything either."

"We'll leave that to Jazz and Mirage. Look, you know these people better than anyone else among us does. Where would your church take her? What would they do with her? Do they still burn people at the stake?"

"What? _No! _Of course not! That was hundreds of years ago!"

But Treadwell considered carefully, under several horrified human gazes and one Cybertronian scowl. Finally he said, "I've heard rumors that the Church has a secret service of some kind. It is a sovereign nation, you know! But as far as I know, that's all they are, rumors! I don't think the Church would have had anything to do with this!"

Ironhide objected, "Well, someone did! One old priest wouldn't have been able to pull this off on his own! Where would he even get a dart gun in the first place, much less get close enough to shoot her with it before she took it away from him?"

Treadwell shook his head. "It doesn't sound like a professional kidnapping, either, they wouldn't have left her harp case lying around, they would have policed the dart, and they would have deactivated her phone rather than throw it out the window because they would have wanted to download any information it had on it. It sounds more like you ought to be waiting for a ransom call."

"Or it's a rogue cell of some kind."

"The Church doesn't have rogue cells!"

Ironhide rumbled, "It does now."

"Fuck." That, at least, was heartfelt on Treadwell's part.

"We know Grady was going to talk to the bishop. Who's that?"

"Let me think. Vegas is its own diocese."

"We're gonna go talk to him. You're comin' with me." The old mech eyed the rest of S-5. "Get inside."

Treadwell nodded to his team, and they obeyed. "You don't just walk in to see the bishop!"

"Watch me," Ironhide told him, leaving the churchyard. "Did I ever tell you about the time Sentinel was gonna shoot me in the back, and Diarwen warned me? That bishop _better_ not have had anything to do with this." Ironhide switched to comms. ::Ironhide, Prime.::

::Yes, Ironhide?::

::We might have a situation on our servos,:: Ironhide reported. He explained what he had discovered.

He was surprised at the quickly suppressed white-hot flash of fury that came down the line. ::Find out what the bishop knows, but do not cause an incident,:: Optimus replied.

A few moments later, Jazz sent out images of the priest and his vehicle to all Autobots, as well as to the humans' phones.

Ironhide pulled up in front of the bishop's residence, then pinged Jazz. ::I need Bishop Rossman's private cell phone number, and I don't care how you get it, just be advised that Prime's orders are not to cause an incident.::

Jazz sent a glyph of understanding, and, a few moments later, followed with the number. Ironhide noticed a distinct absence of Jazz' usual wisecracks. Meister had come out to play, and that was rarely a happy situation for the other side.

Ironhide tapped into a cell tower and sent the number string. It rang twice.

"Hello, who is this?"

"Look out your office window," Ironhide growled.

The curtains ruffled. "I'm afraid I don't see you."

Ironhide blinked his lights. "This is Ironhide, a Cybertronian. I want to have a chat about Diarwen ni Gilthanel. You can come down here and have a quiet little conversation with me, or I'll call the law to come ask you the same questions a lot less privately."

"Diarwen ni- Is this some kind of joke, is someone playing a prank on me? How did you get this number?"

Ironhide's growl rose to a roar, loud enough for the bishop to jerk the phone away from his ear. "If you think kidnapping people off the street is some kind of a joke, you're livin' in a different world from the rest of us."

"Kidnapping? I don't understand! I'm afraid I don't know anything about any kidnapping."

"If that's your story then you won't have to worry about the police."

"Wait. I—I'll be right down. I have get dressed first."

"Put on a coat and get your aft down here."

The bishop, who did not often have to do any such thing, obeyed.

A few minutes later, a side door opened and a gray-haired man hurried to the curb where Ironhide was parked. "Ironhide?"

"That's me," the weapons expert replied, his voice coming from his radio.

"Who are you people and what is all this about? How can I help with a kidnapping?"

"These folks are from the NEST base. That's all you need to know about them. Diarwen ni Gilthanel was drugged and kidnapped in front of Hanratty's Pub forty-five minutes ago. I need to know everything you know about her and Father James Grady. One lie, one evasion, and I'm turning this over to the police right here on this sidewalk, and I'm going to make sure every reporter in Las Vegas knows about it too."

That threat of scandal was no idle one. The bishop gulped.

"Father Grady came to me with his concerns about Miss Gilthanel. I don't know how much you're aware of her history—or how much you'd believe, for that matter—"

"I probably know more about it than you do. I'm not interested—_right now_—in a massacre that took place fifteen or twenty of your generations ago. All I care about is getting Diarwen back safely. The longer that takes to happen, the more interested I'll get in exactly what happened to 25,000 people at Magdeburg, and why someone who sounds like a freedom fighter got nicknamed the White Devil by people whose job was supposed to be protecting innocent civilians."

Ironhide's guns were not in evidence, but the bishop had no doubt that he was in the crosshairs. "All I can tell you is what I told Father Grady, and that was to leave Miss Gilthanel alone. I am not in a position to argue Magdeburg with you and I really do not know what it has to do with anything here and now. But if you think Father Grady kidnapped anyone, that's ridiculous. He's an old man, so old that the shortage of priests is the only reason that he didn't retire many years ago. And that aside, I just can't believe that he would do anything violent! Violence isn't in his nature."

"Wouldn't be the first time a non-violent person did something stupid because they believed a load of propaganda. Did you people think you could throw around words that demonize people and not expect anyone to take it upon themselves to do something about it?"

"I won't try to defend that, but I don't believe anything anyone said would suddenly turn James Grady into some sort of—of AK-47-wielding, bomb-throwing extremist! There has to be more to it than you're telling me."

Treadwell spoke up from Ironhide's front passenger seat. "There is, Your Excellency, and that's my responsibility. We're trying to resolve this before anyone gets hurt. We need to get her back safely, and you know as well as I do, if that doesn't happen, this is going to spiral out of everyone's control. There'll be no way to keep a body out of the press."

"A _body!"_

"What did you think happens to kidnap victims?" Ironhide demanded. "Or, for that matter, to idiots who kidnap the wrong victim and give her good reason to believe her life is in danger? Unless we find her fast, there is _no way_ this ends well. Where would Grady have taken her?"

"He wouldn't have had anywhere to take her! If he is involved, there's no way he's acting alone. But he didn't say anything to lead me to believe he was planning anything like this. You have to believe me, if I knew anything I would tell you. My orders were the same as those I gave Father Grady—to leave Miss Gilthanel in peace. She has left the Church alone for hundreds of years. No one wanted to start all that up again."

Ironhide believed him. "Stay available. And, let me give you a piece of advice. Don't panic and do anything stupid trying to cover this up. Trust me, you do not want to be responsible for making this situation any worse than it already is."

The bishop nodded and hurried back inside, to relay the conversation on up the line.

Ironhide pulled out. Treadwell suggested, "We need to talk to the bartender. If Diarwen noticed anyone acting suspicious before she was taken, she might have mentioned it to him."

"You talk to the bartender," Ironhide agreed. He could think of someone else Diarwen might have mentioned a suspicious person to.

From the back seat, Isaac Darlington spoke up. "Joe, how long you been goin' to that church? Do you know anyone the priest is close to?"

"Not long at all. I've never heard who Father Grady's friends are or what he does on his own time. I never saw him with anyone who would make a more likely kidnap suspect."

Ironhide said, "You see what you're lookin' for."

"I know, I fucked up, all right?"

Baker said, "Both of you! This isn't helping. We can worry later whose fault all this is. The longer it takes to get a kidnap victim back, the worse the odds. Look, we need to canvass the area around that bar. If someone was planning a kidnapping there, someone had to see them casing the place. We need to find out what they're driving."

Ironhide picked up the pace and pinged Optimus. ::It sounds pretty likely that Treadwell's priest, Father Grady, is mixed up in this somehow. We need Mearing to put out a BOLO on him and his vehicle.::

Optimus passed that along to the Director, who assured him it would be done. ::Father Grady from Santa Maria of the Desert?::

::Yeah, that's the one, you know him?::

::Diarwen had an incident with him the other day, when we took some things to the homeless shelter.::

::Everything we're findin' out about him says he didn't do this alone. Did Diarwen mention anything suspicious at the bar?::

::Possibly. She mentioned an old man with prison tattoos on his hands who was sitting down the bar from her. Later she told me that the man had gone.::

Ironhide told Treadwell, "While you're talking to Sean Hanratty, find out if he remembers an old guy sitting at the bar who had tattoos on his hands, and get a description."

End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A nondescript blue van backed into a blind alley between two warehouses, crushing trash that overflowed from a dumpster. "Father, does she look like she's waking up yet?"

Grady examined their prisoner. He had duct taped her wrists and ankles together after discovering that she had a very sharp ceramic knife in her boot.

When the priest showed it to him, the driver nodded. "That's special ops issue," he said. "It'll walk through a metal detector."

"Her kind can't touch iron or steel. That's why she has it. But there are plenty of people on that base who could have gotten it for her."

"She should be waking up by now. We can't give her the psychoactives until the sedative is out of her system, so I used something fast acting; it shoulda been out of her system ten minutes ago."

"I don't know, Tony. She isn't human, and Sidhe live much longer. Maybe their metabolism runs slower. It's taking a lot longer to wear off."

Tony climbed into the back. He examined their prisoner, briefly putting an ear to her chest, rolling up an eyelid, listening to and timing her respirations. "She's breathing OK," Tony said. "All we can do is let her sleep it off."

"Won't we be spotted if we just park here?"

"Not likely, Father, with the lights off and that dumpster between us and the street. We'll want to move before either of these buildings opens up in the morning, but for now, we're OK. No one's going to be looking for this van. By then we ought to have some answers."

He didn't go back to the driver's seat, but settled in with his back against the wheel well, facing the priest. They watched their prisoner; Tony occasionally checked her again, and as time went on he began to time her pulse. Each time he did that, his frown deepened, although he said nothing to Father Grady.

When their eyes made contact, both pairs were troubled; but each was careful to slide his glance away before the other needed to speak.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam Witwicky came out of a trail store with a bag of snacks and a plastic poncho—it looked like rain. He got into Bumblebee's driver's seat and said, "One more night, Bobby. If we don't see anything we can act on, and Mearing still wants to keep this up, we need some more help out here. I don't know what we're going to find out looking over the fence."

Bumblebee's radio played, "Affirmative."

Bobby Epps fished his own soda from the bag. "Yeah."

Bee let out a sudden squawk. "Jazz...just put out...an alert," he told them. "Apparently...someone...kidnapped...Diarwen!"

"What?" Sam asked. "Who was it?"

"Undetermined. They're looking for...a priest."

Epps asked, "What are our orders? Are we recalled to base?"

"No...keep working...on this."

"Well, let's go then. The sooner we wrap this up, the better."

Neither of them noticed the sixtyish man in an expensive suit as he left the bank across the street and got into his car. But he noticed them.

Once behind the tinted windows of his Mercedes, Dr. Arnold Blanville allowed an expression of concern to cross his aristocratic features. He recognized both Sam Witwicky and the Autobot Bumblebee from news footage following the Battle of Chicago. He didn't know the man with them, but he would soon find out. While it would be nice to think they were in Sequoia Falls to enjoy the spectacular scenery, Arnold Blanville had not made his mark in life by leaving such things undetermined. He went directly to the complex, took his private elevator to his office, and summoned his chief of security.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A few doors down the hall, a very bright, bored little girl named Amaranth had spent hours sitting beside the pedestal under the sink in her bathroom, peering through a metal vent cover into a maintenance chase that ran between her bathroom and the one next door. Sometimes the chase carried interesting sounds. Even when all was silent, the dark space full of pipes and wires fascinated her. A few times she had been caught and punished for playing under the sink, but none of the grownups had realized exactly what attracted her to the little space.

Today, however, she realized that the vent cover was held on by four little screws, and that these screws could be turned by sticking the dime she had found into them and twisting it. One of the screws had popped out.

Now, Amaranth patiently waited for Bedtime, when Nurse would check on her one last time to be sure she was in her white pajamas and in her bed. After Bedtime, when she heard the door lock behind Nurse, she slipped out of bed and into the bathroom.

They always knew when her lights were on, so she left them off. If she allowed her eyes to rest a little after she turned the lights off, she could see everything almost as well at night, as long as her curtains were open. Things were all shades of blue rather than many different colors as they were in the daylight, but she could see what she was doing. She found her dime and swiftly began to remove the other screws, lining them up on a washcloth so she wouldn't lose them.

Then she began to wiggle the vent cover off. The back side of it was sharp and when she sliced her finger, it hurt. She had learned that it did not help to cry or to shout "ouch" when something hurt. In fact, it often annoyed Nurse or the Doctors enough that she got a few swats on her behind in addition to whatever had hurt in the first place. Instead, she put her injured finger under the faucet and let the water run on it until it stopped bleeding. As usual, though the little cut might be sore for a day or two, it closed right up within a few moments.

Then she used another washcloth to get the vent off, and laid it on the bath mat. Then she wriggled into the space.

Having lived her entire life in laboratory spaces, her first discovery was dust. It made her sneeze. She froze, her little form shaking. If Nurse caught her in here, Nurse would be angry, and that was not good. But no one came. Amaranth continued through the narrow passage, toward a light that was coming from the vent into the next bathroom.

She could see Nurse's feet in her fuzzy pink slippers, and her chubby legs poking out from her nightie, which was yellow with bright pink flowers. This time Amaranth put both hands over her mouth to keep from giggling. After a few moments, Nurse left her bathroom and turned out the light.

The passage continued in either direction. One way ended in a panel, and she heard the rumbling sound of the janitor's cart going by. That was the corridor outside her own room!

Amaranth turned around—much easier for a 3'6", thirty-five pound little girl than for a full-grown maintenance person! At the other end of the chase was a shaft, with a ladder in it.

She knew what a ladder was. On her way to the Laboratory, she had seen Workers climbing on them. She was not allowed to talk to Workers, nor they to her, which she did not like because she often wanted very much to ask them what they were doing and why. Nurse would quickly pull her away from any Worker who seemed to attract her interest, though. She began to climb down the ladder.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Tony turned to Father James, who was sitting on an upturned milk crate at the back of the van, his rosary moving slowly between his fingers. "Father, you better have a look."

It was well past midnight. The farewell calls and slammed car doors of bar leaving-takings had long since died to silence.

Grady put the rosary away and, as Tony climbed between the front seats to make room, knelt by their unconscious prisoner. He checked her pulse, and listened to her breathing. "Have you got a flashlight?"

"Yeah, there's one in that toolbox right beside you."

Father James gently pulled up one of her eyelids and flashed the light into her eye. "If she were human...I've seen this with people in the shelter who took too many sedatives. The drug isn't wearing off, and her condition is getting worse."

"I swear, I did not give her an OD."

"I know. I saw you check that dart three times. No, we made the mistake of using something that we knew would be safe for one of us, but it obviously isn't for her. We need to get her to a hospital."

"They're not going to know what to do for her either, and...I don't think she's gonna come out of this. You need to decide what we're going to do. If we're going to turn ourselves in, we need to do it _now_. Otherwise, we need to get her out of the van and sanitize it—can't leave any evidence that she's been in it."

The priest bowed his head. "We need to get her back to her friends. After that—if there is an 'after that'—I don't know what to do, Tony, I just don't know."

"That's a deserted stretch of road by their gate. We could dump her there and drive off. By the time the gate guard calls for help and someone gets there, we'll be in Tranquility. Then, you decide what you're going to do."

"What are you going to do?"

"That doesn't much matter any more. I've just about run out of road. I was thinking, maybe somewhere down in South America. Always wanted to see Rio."

"Can you get there?"

"I still have a few friends. What about you, Padre?"

"All my life, I've worked with the homeless, helped runaways find somewhere safe to stay, fed the hungry. But all anyone will ever remember is this. I guess that's what I deserve. I panicked and forgot everything I ever believed in." The old man paused, and looked off into a future defined by his moment of cowardice, and the failure of his ideals. "I can't bear to look at what I've done."

Tony shifted uncomfortably, and got into the driver's seat. Before he started the engine, he said, "We never meant this to happen. That's the only comfort we can take, padre. We were only two washed-up old men, poking into things we should have left alone."

"Let's take her home. We can still do that right."

"Yeah." The engine roared to life.

Neither of them spoke during the drive south. When they came to the base entrance, they found several soldiers milling around in an obvious state of alert.

There was no way they could dump their erstwhile prisoner and hope to escape. The two men exchanged a glance, and Father Grady knelt to Diarwen, cutting the duct-tape bonds on her ankles and wrists. He slid the ceramic knife back into her boot as well.

Tony hadn't stopped the van. He pulled into the gas station and store across the highway from the base, where a woman was putting gas in an SUV. He drove around the building, opened the side door of the van, and after scanning for observing eyes and missing one pair, lifted a hundred-twenty pounds of unconscious Sidhe with a grunt. Somehow not putting his back out, he got Diarwen on the ground by the back door. Then he knocked on that door and jumped back into the van.

The two might have made their escape, had not Morithel been watching the store: the last place she had seen any clear sign of their young runaway. She had hoped he might return to this source of food and other supplies.

For a moment, hidden in the rocks and darkness beyond the lights at the rear of the store, she simply didn't believe what she was seeing. She barely recognized the aura of her longtime counterpart, as weakened as Diarwen was. That the Seelie Knight had been poisoned was obvious to her. And now, these two humans were going to dispose of her like garbage?

She drew a brace of the slender arrows that humans called elfshot. Designed to carry a payload rather than kill outright, Morithel kept several different brews on hand to use when she preferred to leave her prey alive, at least for a while. The one she chose was a powerful hallucinogen whose nightmare visions tended to leave even the strongest enemies incapable of defense. She shot both of them, and watched them drive off in a panic.

They would not get far.

Morithel called upon air and fire to send a plume of bright sparks into the sky above Diarwen, attracting the attention of the gate guards. By then, the owner of the store, the man who had chased her people off with the shotgun, had come out to investigate, and nearly fallen over Diarwen.

When the soldiers arrived, they recognized Diarwen immediately, and bundled her into their Humvee, racing back to base with her.

Her kidnappers made it about a mile before swerving off the road and turning the van on its side. When the police and paramedics arrived, they found two raving lunatics inside, and took them to a hospital in Tranquility.

As for Morithel, the Unseelie warrior disappeared into the darkness. She would not find the fugitive heir to Nightmist as long as this fiasco had the base in an uproar; best to come back later.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Dr. Parker was napping in her office, resting while she could while the base was on high alert. She was roused by the squeal of tires as a Humvee came to a quick stop by the medbay's outside door. She was up and halfway out into the triage area before she woke up.

One soldier pushed the door open and another barged in carrying Diarwen. With reactions honed by years of war in the Mideast, Parker and her staff flew into action. They swiftly conducted a preliminary exam and set up a treatment area safe for the Sidhe.

Parker drew blood for the few tests that they had established worked properly with Sidhe samples. With most "modern medicine," either they had little knowledge about what a normal range for a Sidhe was, or the chemicals used in the tests screwed up the samples. Why had she not thought to develop a full panel? Parker's mind said, running a background mantra of shitshitshitshit while her doctor consciousness took over.

Thanks to the dart that Jazz had found, she knew what to look for, but they didn't know how the sedative could affect Sidhe, or what amount constituted an overdose. "Her O-2 levels are low. Get ready to bag her if they drop much more. Vinson, examine an intubation set and the vent, and make sure there aren't any metal parts that could come into contact with her body. You, soldier—Crimeans? Take that laryngoscope over to Que and tell him I need one exactly like it, but made out of something I can put in Diarwen's mouth, no iron or steel, _stat."_

The soldier took the instrument and raced to Que's lab.

Roller entered in his wake. He found a corner out of the way of traffic, and waited for Parker to tell him something.

Optimus could only flash to his remote for astroseconds at a time, since he was tearing across country as fast as his wheels could carry him, and that usually took all his concentration. But he got enough glimpses of the frenetic activity around Diarwen's bed to terrify him.

Parker snapped orders and her troops hastened to obey, all of them speaking a language that pretended to be English, while Diarwen fought for every breath.

"Nelson!" Parker snapped. "Let her breathe on her own if she can. If she goes more than twenty seconds without a breath, I want you bagging her at the rate of fifteen breaths a minute! You got that?"

"Fifteen breaths a minute, yes sir!"

Ironhide and the Sisters paced Optimus, who sent to Jazz, "Keep up the search for those responsible. I am returning to base as quickly as possible. Return extraneous personnel to base…they are not to race there."

"Sir," said Jazz, and made it so. Sideswipe was crushed, but obeyed.

As soon as they roared into the commons, Optimus sent Ironhide the glyphs that gave him the conn, and transferred his point of presence to Roller almost before his alt-form lost all its momentum. He could not come closer than the halfway point from gate to emergency entrance; to do so was to block ambulance access.

Parker was putting a long white plastic tube down Diarwen's throat. Optimus ran an image search to see what the thing did, and when he found out, his optics shot to the telemetry screen. The saturation of oxygen in her blood was dangerously low, at levels that would have caused brain damage in a human. But the Sidhe did not have hemoglobin. Optimus was not sure what mechanism carried oxygen through their bodies, but he did remember Parker telling him she didn't need as much of that element as did humans.

He could see auras through Roller's optics when the remote was near enough to his spark, but his frame was too far away from medbay at the other end of the commons to do that now. Without that sense—lacking which he had managed perfectly well for vorn—he felt blind. All he could do was wait.

When Optimus lost Ariel, he thought that pain would destroy him. He knew he could not go through such a loss again, not successfully, not and emerge as the Autobot's competent leader once more. Neither could he abandon his people. So he prayed, to Primus, to Diarwen's Lady Brigit, to Anyone disposed to listen.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Bumblebee's optics, dimmed to avoid giving away their position, were the only light the three observers allowed themselves as they crouched in the trees outside the fence. They had chosen another position from the night before, on higher ground where they had a better view of the upper stories.

Sam saw movement in some weeds on the inside of the fence. "Guard dog?"

Bobby grunted. "Right size, maybe—Bee, you're the one with the built-in night vision."

He answered, not with a sound clip, but with a few clicks of the Morse code he knew the NEST sergeant could translate easily.

Epps scowled. "A little kid? It's got to be that girl we saw in the window, but what's she doing out here in the middle of the night?"

For her part, Amaranth was starting to wonder that herself. She had escaped the building through an air intake vent, and dashed across a parking lot into the weeds that she had so often watched dancing on the wind as she stood at her window. Walking through them, she had made the acquaintance of a toad, discovered three interesting rocks, and picked a small blue flower to put in her hair. For the first time in her life, she had simply rambled.

She had no idea that the area was patrolled by vicious dogs at night, nor that a small pack of them was bearing down on her, until she heard a low, menacing growl and turned to see a face full of fangs inches from her own.

She screamed in terror, but reacted according to the training she'd had for her whole short life, protecting her face and neck and lashing out at the dog with a kick that had all her forty pounds behind it.

The dog was not used to small creatures who kicked him. He backed up, yipping to the rest of his pack.

Loud, threatening shouts came from the trees on the other side of the fence, the edge of both Amaranth's and the dog pack's world.

And then something yellow and very, very big hurtled over the fence to land between the child and the dogs, who barked but backed off, then fled with their tails between their legs, when the very big thing let out a high-pitched whistle that hurt their sensitive ears.

Lights and sirens came on from the building. There were shouts, flashlights and running footsteps.

Amaranth backed up, terrified beyond reason.

Epps ordered, "Bee, get her the hell out of here. I don't know what's going on but she isn't staying here another minute until children's services looks into this! Sam and me, we'll lead them off."

Bee hesitated a split second, torn between his Charge and the tiny innocent. Sam told him, _"Go!"_

That direct order resolved the conflict between Bee's Guardian protocols and the programming Optimus had given them all which enabled the Autobots to take orders from NEST. The scout picked up the little girl, jumped the fence and took off.

Sam and Bobby made tracks as well, planning to lead the chase away from Bee and the child before they cut the fence.

Bobby got on his cell phone and reported the problem in a few quick code words; there wasn't time for a long explanation.

The deep ravine that lay just northwest of the compound had Bobby slipping and skidding to the bottom. He cursed when he ended up knee-deep in cold water. He couldn't get out, but some rocks a little farther downstream looked climbable.

Sam slid down beside him, and avoided the water because he had heard Bobby splash into it.

They ran for the rocks and climbed, buying some time while the dogs were stymied at the edge of the ravine.

A guard took a potshot at them. The bullet zinged between the two and hit a tree. Both of them ran for the tree line as fast as they could go. They were getting farther away from the fence, but the trees were the only cover around.

They came to a rock outcrop and ran opposite ways around it, and got split up by a thicket on the other side. There was nothing to be done but keep moving, since they could hear the guards climbing out of the ravine.

One guy got split off from the rest and chased Sam. He swung up into the branches of a tree and waited for the guard to pass underneath him, them jumped down on him, punching like a maniac until the man lay still.

Never having actually knocked someone out before, Sam wasn't sure how long he was going to stay out. He ran again, hoping to catch up with Bobby before too long.

He passed the thicket and the ground ended abruptly in front of him, his speed nearly propelling him over a ten-foot drop off. Windmilling, he caught his balance, and looked around: not helpful, too dark. But he could hear someone tramping through the brush ahead of him. Since Bobby didn't make that much noise, it had to be one of the Westmoreland guys. Sam followed, hoping to sneak up on another one.

He peered around a pine tree—and flashed back on his nightmare from the other morning. A man in a lab coat was leveling a gun on Bobby.

Sam shouted a warning and drew and fired exactly as he had been training to do ever since they had come back to the desert.

In a dizzying break from the reality he had seen in his dream, the man fell, his shot going up into the treetops.

Bobby whirled to see his would-be killer fall to the ground, blood soaking into the bed of leaves, eyes staring sightlessly before he ever hit the ground.

They stared at one another in shock for a moment, but there was no time, no time, no time. Those shots had alerted the whole place, and there was nothing left to do but run.

Pelting down a hillside, they dodged trees and prayed not to break an ankle, heading downhill to the fence. They were fifty yards away when a wide section of that fence blew away to reveal their ride. Bee transformed into alt mode on a narrow road and opened his doors for them.

The two men dived in with the traumatized little girl. Bobby assured her, "You're safe now. No one will hurt you, I promise."

"How do you know? The dogs had big teeth, and those Workers were shooting guns!"

"I know because we won't let them," Bobby replied.

Amaranth gave him a long, measuring look, and recognized someone who took care of little children.

The next thing Bobby knew, he had a lap full of crying child. He held onto her as if she were one of his own little girls, Bee got them to safety, and Sam was already on the phone with Mearing.

End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimers in Part 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Morning in Ironhide and Chromia's apartment was usually fairly quiet. He and Chromia had an early cube of energon together whenever they could, and exchanged plans for the day. Evanon was used to getting up early as well and getting started on his day's chores so that everything would be ready by the time Morithel awakened—and, by Underhill standards, she was an early riser as well.

Today, the household was in an uproar. Ironhide was running the bots' side of the base, and there was some kind of trouble in a place called California that had both his foster-father and Colonel Lennox furious. Apparently a man had been killed, and from the sound of things, it was perhaps fortunate for him that it was so. Mearing—a person who quite frankly terrified Evanon—was on her way to California to take personal charge of the situation.

Chromia was worried and more than a little frazzled, but she took the time to give her fosterling a warm smile. "Good morning, Evanon."

"Good morning, milady. How fares the Lady Diarwen, have you heard?"

"Optimus says there's no change. Doctor Parker has an idea, involving using some sort of fluid to leach the poison out of her. I wish I knew more about organics."

"I have seen a healer use a charmed leech to draw poison, but I know very little of healing magic. Do they give this fluid to the leech first?"

"Ah—_a _leech? Did I use the wrong English word?" She checked the web. "Primus! They let that—scraplet—thing bite them and suck the blood—?"

"It worked; a man who had been bitten by a deadly spider got well after this treatment."

"I don't think that's what they're going to do here. Apparently—and this sounds just as bad to me—they put this special fluid into her abdomen, let it sit there for a while, and then take it out, and the poison comes out with it."

Both of them cringed. "I think that I would rather have the leech," Evanon said.

"The problem is that Sidhe apparently need a different fluid than humans, and that fluid won't exist until Dr. Parker invents it."

"Is there anything else that they can do, if that does not help her?"

Chromia said, "I don't know, Evanon. There may not be time."

Evanon appreciated her honesty, but he had hoped for another answer. "Is there anything I can do?"

She smiled. "Why don't you go up to the proving grounds after breakfast and see if there's anyone up there to spar with? I'm sure Junior is worried about Epps. He might have some excess energy to burn off."

Evanon nodded. The Epps' oldest son was also named Robert; he went by Junior. A year or so younger than Evanon, he was noisy and brash, but that covered up a great deal of insecurity. Evanon liked the younger boy, but had not spent very much time with him since there was still a language barrier with most of the humans. The bots were better at deciphering his heavily accented English, which was also fairly minimal.

When Evanon crossed the commons on his way to the cafeteria, he saw Ironhide parked in his alt form beside Prime, and waved but did not intrude. He was answered by a headlight blink, and returned waves from Chip and Mikaela, who were there too.

He collected a power bar and two bottles of water, and ate the power bar as he left the Quonset hut and walked along the road out to the proving grounds.

Roaring engines, heavy impacts of tons of metal crashing into each other, and the din of weaponry both small and large informed him that the proving ground was in heavy use this morning. The NEST children were usually kept home from school when something like the incident in California was going on, but the older ones were not at the proving grounds yet. Probably the parents were keeping them closer to home until they knew what was happening.

The Tiny Trine were watching their Guardian and Sideswipe training. Evanon sat beside them, and soon had Skysong wanting to cuddle. She was well aware that she was too large now to sit on any human's lap without quickly becoming uncomfortably heavy, but she still wanted to snuggle. Evanon did not mind. He had always enjoyed taking care of the younger children, and the only difference where the seekerlings were concerned was their size. Soon he was between Skysong and Starskimmer, with Stormwing on Song's other side.

Stormy said, "Since we're all cheerin' for Cade-Cade, you needa cheer for Sides!"

Evanon grinned. "Very well."

Before long, he was as caught up in the sparring session as the sparklings. Sides taught his two-blade style, which had a few similarities to the sword and dagger style that Morithel had taught him, though Sides and Barricade were both highly aggressive fighters and neither had a discernible off-hand. They were equally likely to attack or parry with either blade, therefore the weapons were the same size.

Their practice blades were harmless holograms, but with the virtual-reality programming they were running, they reacted to the weapons as if they were real. Evanon was soon on the edge of his seat, even when they stopped sparring to work on technique, following one another through a form with the kind of power and grace that came only from ages of repetition.

Sides had an audial on the base comms. Between forms, he reported, "Bee's team is wheels up from California. They'll be here in an hour, and they're bringing a baby back with them."

Barricade repeated, "A baby? A human sparkling? Where in the Pit did they get that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but Mearing's separating a whole litter of turbofoxes over it!"

"So who got killed?"

"Don't know that either, but it wasn't one of ours, thank Primus."

Cade's chronometer pinged for his attention. "OK, bitlets, it's time for your Sesame Street program. Thanks for the match, Sides."

"Sure thing. I'll be up at the construction site helping Sunny if anyone wants me."

Barricade folded down to his black and white alt form and collected the sparklings.

Sides asked Evanon, "What are you going to do?"

"I have a short time before my English lesson with Mrs. Lennox. I thought I would explore the trails."

"Oh, yeah, OK, but get some bottles of water out of the shed to take with you, and stay on the pathways. Ratchet's paranoid about people falling like I did—and there are snakes and some pretty nasty insects that will bite organics. Stay inside the fence."

"I do not mean to go so far."

"Got your phone?"

He produced the gadget. Sides grinned and told him to have a good time, then transformed with his signature flashy grace and sped off, trailing dust.

Evanon waved, then went to the shed to help himself to water. A small refrigerator inside was kept stocked, and he replaced the bottles he took from a stack of plastic-wrapped cases on a shelf. That power bar he'd had for breakfast hadn't lasted, so he also took a bag of chips, and munched on them as he explored.

The trail branched not far from the proving grounds, one way headed to the access road and the other went up a rocky hillside. He had learned to take pictures with his phone, and thought there would be some good places up there to practice his new skill.

He was climbing up on a rock to get a better view—what Ratchet didn't know wouldn't hurt him—when he heard a low-pitched groan from further up the hillside.

He jumped to the ground. That had sounded like a person, not an animal. "Is someone up there?" He realized he had asked in Sidhe, and repeated the phrase in English.

There was no answer, but Evanon was certain that he had heard something. He drew his sword and carefully advanced, heart racing. Was it a spy? If he used the phone to call for help, the person would hear him, and might shoot down at him. He wanted to make the acquaintance of neither an arrow nor a bullet. Better to get to cover and then find out what he was dealing with.

Stepping carefully to avoid dislodging rocks, he climbed slowly, with frequent pauses to listen.

Behind the rocks, there was a small flat sheltered nook, and in it Evanon found a Sidhe boy his own age. He was backed up against a rock, and one leg was too swollen and bruised to bear his weight. He had no weapons other than a fist-sized rock, but he looked quite prepared to throw it.

Evanon sheathed his sword and held out an open hand. "I mean you no harm. What are you doing here? You are of Nightmist?"

"So they tell me." After a moment, the Sidhe put his rock down. "Who are you? What is this place?"

"The only name I know for myself is Evanon, and until recently, I belonged to the Lady Morithel. And now, you have me at the disadvantage."

"My name is Jason Brierly, but my birth parents told me my real name was Evanon—after they crammed your language in my head."

"I see. It seems that you and I were changelings. What are you doing here?"

"I escaped. I want no trouble here. I am only trying to get home. But your Morithel and a lot of crazy aliens in bloody hats are chasing me. They did not cross that fence after me, though."

"This land is under the protection of the Lady Diarwen. It would be a breach of honor to sneak in and take you as if you were a prize in a cattle raid. Morithel would not do such a thing when all she needs to do is wait for you to leave. How did you hurt your ankle?"

"I hid on a roof, and slipped getting down."

Evanon offered him the rest of his chips and a bottle of cold water. "I'll call for help."

"No, wait, please! There were signs all over that they prosecute trespassers. They'll throw me in jail!"

Evanon remembered the arguments between Treadwell and Ironhide over him. Treadwell had wanted him locked up somewhere, and he was human. He disliked Diarwen as well. If they caught another Sidhe on the base? Evanon thought it was entirely possible that Jason would be locked up if they caught him. But it was also true that he was here without permission and that made him a danger...once his leg healed. He nodded slowly. "Very well. I will bring you supplies when I can, but hear me—if you harm anyone here, I will kill you myself. These folk have given me guest-right within their home, and even have gone so far as to foster me. I will defend them if you make me."

"I understand. I wish to do no harm whatsoever, all I want is to go home." Much more of Jason's longing bled into his tone than he had intended. He wanted his parents, but had no way to contact them.

"We will figure something out."

"You have a cell phone?"

"Yes, but it is...not private. I have been warned that someone may be listening at any time."

"Oh." Jason thought that on a top secret military base, they would want to be able to monitor conversations, and know who people were talking to.

"We are using the wrong names, I suppose."

"I would rather...I know myself as Jason, and you have always been called Evanon. I think we should stay as we are."

Evanon nodded. "That makes sense to me. Can you tell me about my birth parents? What is your family like?"

"My father is a mechanic; his name is Lennie Brierly. He runs a shop with my friend's dad. My mom, Kara, teaches second grade. We live in Brooklyn, our apartment's on the fourth floor. There's a deli on the street level, they have the best pastrami there. I'm in the ninth grade, and I run track, and take tae kwon do after school. I got an iPad for my birthday two months ago, and I like playing Angry Birds. I have a dog, his name is Boomer. He chases pigeons every chance he gets, but he never catches any. I like to ride the subway because the people are so weird sometimes, but I have to watch out for the metal everywhere."

"What kind of city is Brooklyn?"

"It is one of the boroughs of New York. It is very large, with more than two million people, but it is a city of neighborhoods. All of the city I saw in the Underhill could fit in one of those neighborhoods, probably with room left over. People with the same ancestry, or who speak the same language, live in certain areas, so only a few blocks away it can be totally different type of place. My dojang is in a Korean neighborhood, I have to go on the subway to get there. Brooklyn is mostly working class, ordinary people like my parents. I think most people would like it. There is always something new to do. My dad and I like to fish off the pier. And then there is the rest of New York City. There is so much to see. The museums and galleries—my mother loves those—and we've seen musicals. Those are huge theater productions. And we go to Yankees baseball games sometimes."

"We watch baseball on the television here. I have seen the stadiums, so many people. That sounds exciting."

"It is! I almost caught a pop fly one time!"

"Jason, we will find a way for you to get home to your Brooklyn."

The Sidhe boy nodded. He meant to do that, with or without Evanon's help, but it was much less scary to be out here now that he knew someone else would help. And it would only be right if Evanon could meet his real parents.

He tried not to think about the possibility that once his parents had their real son back, they might not need him any more. Jason hadn't been legally adopted, so he guessed he wasn't even really an American. Would they deport him, send him back to the Underhill? He didn't know.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen's curtained space in medbay was brightly lit and filled with sound. The soft beeping from the monitors and the hiss of the ventilator created a constant white noise that obscured the usual sounds of day to day life in the science section. Now and then, other sounds intruded—a call over the loudspeaker, the rattle of a meds cart, a conversation just outside the curtains. But usually, the world in here consisted only of Diarwen's fight for life and the array of machinery that had become her arms and armor in that battle.

Inhabiting Roller, Optimus had never felt so useless. Diarwen was no longer aware, and her aura was gray and becoming more ephemeral with every passing moment. Even the aid of the ventilator and extra oxygen was no longer enough. Her body was expending resources to attempt to heal itself, to use magical ability that she no longer possessed.

The curtain parted and an exhausted Dr. Parker came in. "She's hanging in there."

"She will," Optimus replied. "Surrender is not in her vocabulary. But she is fading."

"I know," Parker replied. "Optimus, she has listed you as her next of kin, and you have a decision to make. I've come up with a formula for a dialysis solution that I believe will work for her, taking into account the differences in blood chemistry between Sidhe and humans. But I have no way to test it except try it."

"If we do nothing, she will die."

"Yes. And dialysis will help her, in the short term, unless I've made a terrible mistake with the formula and the process itself kills her. I can't rule that possibility out, Optimus. What I can't tell you is whether it will prolong her life or extend her death. She may already have taken damage that is too severe for her to survive. It may be that only these machines are keeping her alive. It's also possible that the lack of oxygen has caused brain damage. With the poison out of her system, she could survive that, but never again be the Diarwen we knew. In a human, I could make a more reliable prognosis. All that we can do is try to make the decision that she would make if she were capable of doing so."

"Has she not left directives for us to follow in such a case?"

"Yes, but they only come into play when her condition is hopeless, or at the point when I and two other doctors agree that she has entered a permanent vegetative state. Neither of those things are true now."

"Given her history of survival, I believe that she would try. She would understand that this is only an opportunity, not a guarantee, but I have never known her to ask for more than a fighting chance—nor to squander one. We will make the attempt."

"It's going to take me a few minutes to get the equipment ready. You can visit with her until then, but after that I'll have to ask you to move Roller out of the way while we set things up. We'll need room to move around in here. You can come back after that."

He parked next to the bed and reached Roller's servo through the bars. Sensors on the manipulative surfaces of his clawed digits returned a low temperature reading. Her body conserved oxygen for her vital organs by reducing circulation to her extremities. He had seen too many soldiers over the Autobots' years here on earth grow pale and still and cold like this as they fought and lost their final battles.

His will attempted to raise energy and offer it to her, but no matter how hard he tried, there was too great a distance between them. He knew there had to be a way—Diarwen had healed Skysong at a greater distance than this—but he didn't know how.

"Diarwen, beloved, you must not leave me. If you can hear me, please, fight. We are doing all that we can to help you. Dr. Parker has come up with a way to remove the poison from your body. If I could do this in your place, I would, in a sparkbeat, but against this enemy, I cannot stand as your champion. Fight well, never give up. Come back to me."

Optimus moved Roller to an out of-the-way corner beside a supply cabinet, leaving the remote with orders to keep watch and alert him if there was an emergency with Diarwen, or when Parker allowed him to come back. Then he returned his awareness to his frame, which had been dormant long enough to settle and stiffen.

Ironhide was keeping watch beside him. Either he or one of the Big Twins had been there constantly throughout the entire vigil.

"How is she?" the old warrior asked.

"Not good. But Dr. Parker has created a dialysis solution that she believes is Diarwen's best chance. They are preparing for the procedure now."

"How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," Optimus replied, making no attempt to conceal his exhaustion and anxiety from their cohort bond.

"You need to walk around and get some energon," Ironhide told him. "The worst thing you could do right now is knock yourself into stasis. C'mon."

The Prime transformed and the two crossed the commons to the energon cabinet. Optimus grabbed a cube of midgrade without really paying any attention to what flavor it was. They had different varieties now, some of it produced from pure sunlight, others with Earth fuel bases. Today, it didn't make any difference. All he cared about was sustenance.

"I am glad that I do not know what became of the humans who did this to her. I am in no fit state to deal with them. I do not believe that I could be responsible for my actions."

"There'd be something wrong with you if you could," the big ebony bot told him; what Ironhide didn't share was that in Optimus' place, he'd've stepped on the little slaggers. "Let us, and the human authorities, worry about them."

Optimus nodded. If there was anything he had learned about leadership, it was never to rush to snap judgments in anger when circumstances gave him the latitude to wait. He finished his energon and went to the command center to see what was going on there. Lennox had things in hand.

The colonel informed him, "The California team's ETA is twenty minutes."

"Have there been any more developments?"

"Yes, but Director Mearing is in command on site, and the place is crawling with feds. She's ordered Doc Collins and Sector 8 out there. They departed about an hour ago and should be arriving presently. It doesn't sound like we're going to be needed. But she's ordered the highest security on a civilian that the team has placed in protective custody, and are bringing back with them. It's a four-year-old child, and nobody gets near her without Mearing's prior approval."

"For what reason?"

"Witness protection, at this point. But you and I both know there's more to it than that."

"Then we will protect her," Optimus replied.

Lennox nodded. "How is Diarwen?"

Optimus conveyed the news.

"Can we do anything?" Lennox asked.

"I would say, pray, but it seems that it was one of your God's own who did this to her."

"Doesn't mean He cut the orders. You know as well as I do, sometimes the troops go over the fence. I'll ask Him about it."

"That cannot hurt."

"Keep me informed."

"Gladly. And do not hesitate to interrupt if I need to field anything concerning our small guest."

"Thanks. I doubt there'll be anything, because I'll put Sarah in charge of that situation."

Roller pinged Optimus, and when he replied, the remote sent video of Parker and her nurses leaving Diarwen's bedside. Optimus excused himself and returned to his spot on the bot side of the commons, then returned to Roller and took up his vigil at Diarwen's bedside.

A large bag of fluid had been hung from an IV pole, and the tube disappeared under a draw sheet to a catheter extending into her abdomen. The sheet preserved her modesty, but the outline of the equipment still showed through.

When Roller moved, Parker came over to explain the process. "The liquid flowing into her is high in glucose, as well as a number of other substances to keep it compatible with her body chemistry. Now by the process of osmosis, liquid flows through the tissue membranes to try to equalize the ratio of sugar on both sides. The waste products and foreign substances in her bloodstream will be carried with it. When the dialysis solution reaches equilibrium after a few hours, we'll replace it with fresh solution. This isn't the standard dialysis procedure that we use in the US, but it is commonly used very successfully in many other countries, and it is the only procedure we can use for Diarwen since we can't run her blood through a dialysis machine. We'll be in and out frequently to monitor her and make certain that she isn't having any bad reactions to the solution, but she's holding up well so far. Now, it's a matter of wait and see."

"How much of that do you need to put into her?"

"Approximately one and one-half liters. That is not an excessive amount, but she's relatively small-framed. If she tolerates this well, we may be able to raise the amount next time."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Talk to her. Patients know you're there, and hearing often remains when other senses aren't working. It will help her to hear your voice."

"Is she in pain?"

"No. We can tell that by the monitors, if she were suffering her vital signs would show it."

"One good thing, then," he replied.

Parker made a last check of the equipment, then stopped for a moment to rest a hand on Roller's upper servo joint before leaving to see to her next patient.

Optimus was not sure what to say to his sleeping lover. He told her about the situation in California, and the usual base gossip, but it wasn't long before he ran out of that. Flareup could have gone on at length about nothing at all, but that was not one of his talents. He turned to her interest in Cybertronian myths and legends, the tales from the shadowed beginnings of their culture when they had been enslaved by the Quintessons, the heroic acts of the original Primes whose lifespan overlapped hers for one brief summer at the end of the last ice age, as their adventures ended, and hers began.

He left her for a few moments when Sides pinged him that Sam's plane was landing. He and Ironhide rolled out to the airstrip in their alt modes. Sideswipe had also taken his alt form, the sleek new-model Lamborghini Aventador that he and Sunny had recently chosen. They quickly decided that it would be better for their small guest to get comfortable with the idea of transformation by becoming accustomed to the smaller bots such as the Sisters, Jazz and Bumblebee, before seeing the root modes of the huge warframes.

When they came down the ramp, Bobby was carrying a little girl in muddy, grass-stained white pajamas while Sam had his cell phone stuck to his ear, reporting their safe arrival to Mearing. Bee rolled down the ramp last.

The Lennoxes met Epps at the edge of the tarmac. Optimus had never seen such a thoughtful, serious expression on any human child, as Lennox told her, "Hi, I'm Will, and this is Sarah. You're going to be staying with us and our little girl Annabelle. She's about your age. What's your name, sweetie?"

"Amaranth," she replied.

"That's a pretty name."

"Thank you," she replied politely. "May I walk now?"

"Sure, as soon as we find you a pair of shoes. Can I carry you in the meanwhile so you don't hurt your feet?"

She nodded solemnly, and Will settled her on his hip. Bumblebee offered them a ride to their apartment, and Optimus heard Sarah talking to Will about a trip to town to get her some clothes, but for now some of Annabelle's things would do.

Sam holstered his phone and joined Optimus. "How is Diarwen?"

"No change," he replied. "But she is no worse, either."

"Fuckin' bastards," Sam said.

"Sergeant Epps was unharmed?"

"Yeah, Blanville's shot went wild when I shot him. Bobby and I both got a little banged up getting out of there, but nothing to worry about."

"What is the situation with Amaranth?"

Sam told him about the little girl and the fight at the compound. "The guy I shot was named Arnold Blanville. When we got into the building, the feds arrested another guy named Eli Oliver, who was Blanville's assistant, and a nanny named Jennifer Pratt. Oliver clammed up, but when Mearing threatened Pratt, she started singing like a canary. Blanville was Helix, the man we've been looking for. It seems like he panicked when it looked like Amaranth had escaped. Amaranth was one of his recombinant-DNA experiments, apparently the only one that survived. She's a prototype. I don't understand it, but the short version is, she has about six human parents, and they've used gene splicing to give her certain animal traits as well. They saw her as a commodity, a floor model to demonstrate her abilities. They wanted to sell her clones to the government. Their argument would have been that she isn't fully human and doesn't have rights."

Prime's response was a low-pitched rumbling growl that meant exactly the same thing in English, Cybertronian, and every other language on Earth and off it. No one would ever use any child in that way while he was around. "What are Director Mearing's plans now?"

"She's combined S10 with S8 and put AD Collins in charge. He's secured the compound and brought in some of his people from Atlanta to assess the situation. Most of the people who work there have no idea what was going on. They think Blanville was Amaranth's father, so they're going to be told she's been sent back East to live with her mother's relatives. The FBI is doing a thorough background check on everyone and making Homeland Security noises, and letting them draw their own conclusions. The real story is all going to be covered up, for Amaranth's protection. This is probably the best place for her, because the normal foster-care system wouldn't be able to deal with her. She really is some kind of a super-kid, IQ's off the charts, speaks three other languages besides English, plays the violin, black-belt in karate, who knows what else. But we didn't find any toys or games, none of the normal things you'd expect a four-year-old to have. The only things she had to play with were crayons and paper. First time I ever heard of a kid needing remedial recess."

"She reminds me greatly of refugee sparklings—Bumblebee in particular—at her approximate level of development. The young are stronger than we think to give them credit for, Sam. Given enough love and patience, they find a way to recover from almost anything," Optimus replied. Then he asked, "Are you expecting repercussions from the shooting?"

"There has to be an investigation, that's standard procedure. The same thing as with Gould. But I didn't have a choice. I'll be cleared."

Sam's fields showed his exhaustion, so Optimus let him go to eat and rest. He watched for a moment as the Lennoxes took that little lost child into their apartment and into their lives. He would need to have a plan in place in case a change in administration in Washington created a situation where the girl could be viewed once again as only a thing instead of a person, but that could wait. He turned around on the landing strip and went back inside the hangar, and parked as near medbay as he could without getting in the way if Ratchet should need to come through here in alt form with an injured human on board.

Ironhide had gone into Jazz' den while Optimus had been talking to Sam. Now his foster-father rejoined him.

"What did Jazz want?"

Ironhide made an executive decision, in light of the conversation they had earlier. "Just standard stuff. Don't worry about it, we got it all under control."

That was enough for Optimus, for the time being anyway. He shut down and projected to Roller.

The fact was, Jazz had located Father James and his accomplice, an ex-convict named Tony Donelli who had reputed mob ties, in a drug ward at Tranquility General Hospital. The saboteur had conferred with Mearing, and the two were being watched by one of Mearing's agents. They weren't going anywhere, and depending on whether or not they ever came out of la-la land, they might spend the rest of their lives in a padded cell somewhere. Mearing was hoping they'd come out of it at least enough to question them.

Ironhide did too, more or less, but he was finding it difficult to engage his give-a-frag module where those two slaggers were concerned. They were no longer a threat, and as it seemed they had acted alone, that was all that was really important.

It really was too bad he couldn't justify steppin' on 'em, though.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Burnout sighed, and refrained from thinking about going to Optimus Prime's office. It was good to have that off his processor for a few days at least.

He said a prayer to Primus for Diarwen, and got up off his knees to go spar with the rest of his team.

End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer in Part 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Evanon packed himself a big lunch and loaded a couple of large bottles of water in his backpack. No one had been paying too much attention to him, given the two emergencies on base, but Chromia noticed that he was taking a lot of food with him.

"Evanon, you can have all the food you want, but you don't have to hoard it or anything. No one's going to let you go hungry," she promised, concerned.

"I know, but when I climb up to the places I like to take pictures, I get hungry!"

Monique smiled. "Of course you do, kiddo. He's a growin' boy, Chromia, they _eat. _Trust me."

Chromia nodded and smiled. "I'll defer to your experience."

"I do not mean to be selfish, or to take too much..."

"You aren't. We're just worried you might think we'd keep you from eating as a punishment or something like that," Chromia replied. "We would never. I promise you."

Evanon gave her a hug, and wished he could bring Jason back to base so that Ironhide and Chromia could take care of him and protect him. But he remembered too well Treadwell's reaction to his own sudden appearance in the humans' midst. It simply would not be safe for Jason if the adults found him.

He didn't mention the blanket and extra set of clothes that he had swiped from the closet and stuffed into the bottom of his backpack. When Epps commented on the pack he replied, "I have seen you running with your packs. It is more convenient than running with a stone in a burlap bag, as Morithel had me do."

"Gotcha. If you're gonna be running, make sure you got good shoes and socks so you don't get blisters."

"My feet are tough. I am used to running on stone in the Underhill. But these are very nice shoes. Thank you." He was pleased with his high-top sneakers, which were much more comfortable than boots.

"Have a good run!"

Evanon did run out to the proving ground, and worked up a thirst as a result. He went in the storage shed to replace the bottle of water he drank, and saw some first-aid kits there. He took one of those for Jason's ankle.

Jason was waiting anxiously when Evanon climbed up to his campsite.

"I was starting to worry that I had gotten you in trouble," Jason said.

"No, someone was poisoned while on liberty, and she is quite ill. There is another situation also, and that delayed me. I have brought you some food, clean clothing, and a blanket. It is not much, but it is good. I tried to pick things that I know the Lady Diarwen can have. No one thinks anything of it if I prefer the same sorts of food."

"My mom only lets me eat healthy organic stuff. She keeps telling me how junk food made me really sick a few times when I was a kid. But I can eat candy and stuff without getting sick, as long as it does not have things that I cannot pronounce in it."

"I hope that these are all right. I brought the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the apple, because I think they will keep for later in the day even after it gets hot."

"They should be fine. Hey, a first aid kit, thanks!"

"Do you know how to wrap your ankle?"

"Not really. I mean, I had first aid in health class in school, but that has been a while ago. But if the instructions have pictures I should be able to do it."

Evanon told him, "Let me see. I was taught to treat minor injuries. We were expected to take care of such things ourselves. I know a few small healing charms as well, if you do not mind me trying them."

Jason said, "Are you kidding? My leg really hurts. If you can do something for it, that would be great." He tried to ease his boot off, but bit back a cry and cursed in both English and Sidhe.

Evanon put the cap back on his water bottle. "Let me try, I will not have to move your leg as much. For one thing, we should loosen the laces more."

"I laced it up tight on purpose. I was afraid it would swell really badly if I left it loose."

"I will wrap it tightly to prevent swelling. You should also keep it propped up on a rock." Evanon carefully loosened the laces and slid the boot off, moving the foot as little as possible, then he peeled off the spidersilk stocking. "I could take some of these things back and wash them, then put them in a bag and then tomorrow bring them back here for you to dry them."

"I would love a shower."

"I do not see a way to get enough water for a proper bath up here. I am sorry."

"No, Evanon, please. You probably saved my life already, simply by bringing me drinking water, much less everything else. Maybe, though, if you took my empty bottles back and refill them from the tap, instead of throwing them away, I could use that water to get clean?"

"I can do that. I will not have jeans and tee shirts taking up room in the pack the next time."

Jason's leg was very bruised, and it began swelling as soon as it was no longer constricted by the boot. Evanon felt it gently for obvious signs of broken bones. He could not find any, but ankles and wrists were tricky, because there were so many small bones involved. "I believe it only to be sprained. I have a charm that will help, but if there is a broken bone, I could cause it to heal out of place."

"If it does, I can go to the doctor when I get home and have them re-break it and set it again. Right now, getting home at all is more important. And even if it is not healed perfectly, it should hurt less."

"Yes. But remember to have an actual healer look at it as soon as you can."

"I will. Evanon, do you ever get to go into town? Have you ever seen a pay phone? If you could find one, you could call my parents. They could come to the nearest town and I could meet them there."

"I do not know what a pay phone is. I only know this phone, and the ones on desks."

"Pay phones are outdoors, usually, and they are in phone booths. You put coins in them, or use a phone card."

"What is a phone card?" Evanon asked.

"Something like a credit card for making long distance calls..." Jason's voice trailed off as he realized Evanon had no idea what a credit card was, either. "If they had left me my things, I _had_ a cell phone."

Evanon said, "I doubt I will be permitted to explore the town soon, anyway. We are supposed to fit in, but I think I would be noticed quickly. It is only a matter of time, though. We should be able to get you to the town once you are well enough to walk, and you know how to use these things."

Jason nodded. All he had to do was continue to be patient, but it was hard to sit here and put up with his throbbing ankle when he was right down the road from that convenience store, which certainly had a pay phone.

After Evanon wrapped his ankle and did his healing magic on it, the pain lessened considerably. The two boys sat in the shade for a while eating sausage biscuits. Then Evanon climbed higher into the rocks to take the photos he had claimed as his reason for coming up here, and got back to base before someone decided to come looking for him.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Will and Sarah Lennox thanked Bumblebee for the ride from the airstrip as the scout released Amaranth from the child safety seat that he had manifested for her. Ironhide had scanned Annabelle's, and improved the design with his usual attention to detail, then distributed the file to every bot whose alt had an interior passenger space. Ratchet had analyzed the new mod, and said that it was as secure and heavily armored as a front-liner's spark casing. Not one of the bots had complained that fully armoring the seat reduced their own defenses, especially if they felt it wise to put it in escape pod mode and eject it in the event of battle.

Bee re-absorbed the seat and went over to Sam and Carly's place.

Will carried Amaranth inside and let her down. She wriggled her bare toes on the carpet. "What's this?"

"It's carpet," Sarah explained. "We put it on floors to make them softer."

"What's my schedule now?"

Will and Sarah looked at each other. Four-year-olds weren't supposed to know the word "schedule," much less worry about whether or not they had one, but they knew from experience that little children did better when they knew what to expect. Sarah said, "Well, on an ordinary day, Will and I get up first and get ready for our day, then I wake up our daughter Annabelle, and we all have breakfast together. Will goes to work. I get Annabelle bathed and dressed, then I take her to preschool over at the main hangar—that's where she is now—and I do my morning work. After lunch, I take Annabelle to day care, unless it's Monique's and my turn to babysit. Most of the time, unless he needs to work late, Will has dinner with us, and then we relax until bedtime. Sometimes we have datapad work, but even if we do, we hang out in the living room and watch a DVD or something. Weekends are more like evenings. We usually do things as a family, or with other families here."

"Oh. That's...different."

Will knelt to talk to her eye-to-eye, something he really wouldn't have thought to do before spending time with the Autobots. They were not at all reluctant to get down on the ground to talk to humans at eye level when there wasn't a catwalk around. "Really? What do you usually do?"

"I get up at 0530 and take my shower and put my uniform on. Nurse inspects me then takes me to breakfast. I have tests with Dr. Oliver, then Nurse takes me to the classroom. I get my computer and do my lessons for the day. Dr. Blanville comes in and checks my work, and punishes me for the assignments I didn't do well enough. Then, if I did well enough, I have lunch. After that, I have my violin lesson, and go to Security Chief Timbroke for my karate lesson. After that, I go to the shooting range for half an hour. Dr. Blanville reviews my afternoon work. I don't get punished very often for my afternoon work, it's usually always good. Sometimes I just get milk and a nutrition bar instead of dinner if I hit too many klinkers on the violin that day. I never get punished for karate or shooting, I'm very good at those."

Lennox somehow did not go ballistic, and a swift glance at Sarah told him she was holding on to the ragged ends of her anger at Amaranth's situation as well. "What rules did they teach you about guns?"

"Never touch one unless Security Chief Timbroke gives it to me, and never point it at anything except a target unless Dr. Blanville orders me to kill that thing. If I'm ordered to shoot something I may never hesitate, because it might hurt Dr. Blanville if I do. Never ever point it anywhere near a Supervisor, and never at a Worker unless Dr. Blanville orders me to. Always make sure the gun is unloaded before I clean it, and always clean it before I put it in the gun locker. Never leave a gun unlocked, and always assume that any gun I might find is loaded. Guns are not playthings so I must never, ever play with one," she recited.

Sarah asked quietly, "Has Dr. Blanville ever told you to shoot anything?"

Amaranth's lip trembled, and her eyes filled. Sarah took a step toward her, and the girl backed up, which brought tears to Sarah's eyes and rage to Will's.

The tiny girl said, "A pig, once. It was big and it had big teeth sticking out on either side of its mouth. They turned it loose and Dr. Blanville told me to shoot it—and that it would eat me up if I didn't. I shot it and it just fell over. Dr. Blanville said he was proud of me, and we had pork chops a lot for a while after that."

Will didn't let the anger into his voice. "Well, if someone turns a mean pig loose on you, I don't think you could have done anything else. But no one here will ever let a pig try to eat you up. Here, we have some practice guns that only shoot paint. I'll see to it that we get you one and you'll practice with that. I never want you to touch a real gun unless it's an absolute matter of life and death, do you understand? Around here, grownups take care of little kids, which means we're the ones who fire the real weapons."

"I understand. What should I call you?"

"I'm Will, she's Sarah."

"Will I still have school?"

Sarah said, "Of course; all kids have school. What are you learning?"

"English, spelling, math, history, reading, science, Chinese, Russian and Arabic. I was supposed to learn Japanese but Dr. Fujikawa was reassigned."

The Lennoxes managed to shut their mouths. Will said, "Were your classes all on your computer?"

"Only the morning ones. Dr. Samara taught violin, and all my combat training was with Security Chief Timbroke. Nurse taught me to draw, but Dr. Blanville says that isn't a real class so I'm only allowed to do that before I go to bed. The rest of the time I have to be doing something useful."

"I see," Will told her. He decided he was going to get her the biggest art set he could find, ASAP.

"Which classes can I still have here?"

"All of them. We'll just have to sort out who can teach what. Will, since you have your black belt, you can teach karate, can't you?"

"I'm qualified, yes. What belt do you have?" he said to Amaranth.

"First dan," she replied.

"What style?"

"Shotokan," she replied. "I've also learned some jeet kun do and krav maga, but not like in a class. Those are just some things that Security Chief Timbroke taught me. I don't think he was really supposed to. He said it was always a good idea to have a few surprises that no one except him and me knew about."

Will decided that he needed to have a conversation with Timbroke. It sounded like the man was doing his best to teach her to take care of herself right under Blanville's nose. "That's my style too. I'm fourth dan, so that'll work out. I can't promise I'll always have time to teach you, but there are quite a few people on your level who can work with you when I can't."

Sarah said, "Let's get you a bath and find some clothes that fit you, then we're going to go meet Dr. Parker. I promise she won't do anything mean to you except maybe test your blood or something like that. We need to know if those people have been taking good care of you."

Will asked her, "Amaranth, honey, has anyone ever hurt you?"

"Sometimes Dr. Oliver's tests hurt, and they were always scary. I know I'm not allowed to cry, but sometimes I really couldn't help it."

"That's one rule that's different here. You get to cry if you need to," Will told her firmly. "And if anybody ever hurts you or scares you, I want to know about it."

She looked at him with her head tilted a little sideways. It was obvious to Will that no one had ever cared if she were hurt or scared before. It was going to take a long time before she trusted anyone enough to open up to them.

Blanville was lucky Sam had shot him, even if it was too good for him. Will waited until Sarah took Amaranth down the hall to the bathroom, and he heard the shower running. Then he went in the furnace room and took his anger out on his punching bag, cursing too softly for the little girl to hear him over the shower.

When Sarah brought her out in pink leggings, sandals, a tee-shirt with a rainbow on it, a big sparkly pink bow in her hair, and a smile on her little face roughly the size of the entire state of Nevada, she took note of his red knuckles, but didn't say anything.

They walked back up the sidewalk to the hangars, and Amaranth looked around at everything. It was very hot, and there were a lot of new smells.

Then something went "whoosh" over head. She looked up to see two little planes and two smaller...birds? No, not birds...flying…things.

Amaranth suddenly, more than anything, wanted to fly.

As they walked, the four fliers came around, and one by one, landed in front of the biggest hangar. The two smallest folded their wings and helped another winged one get out of one of the planes, then the three of them pushed it inside.

They were robots like Bumblebee!

A tall black woman got out of the other plane, and some people that Amaranth thought were probably Workers came over to help her put it in the hangar.

Once the ultralight was secure, the woman opened a locker, took off gloves, a helmet that had "Sawbones" painted on the front, and a jacket with a lot of colorful patches scattered across it, and exchanged those for a white lab coat. She took her ID card from the jacket and clipped it to the coat.

She didn't act like any of the doctors that Amaranth knew, though. She trotted over to join them, with a smile on her face and cheeks still rosy from the wind aloft. "Hello, Colonel, Sarah. And you must be Amaranth. They told me a lot about you, and that you'd be coming to see me today. I'm very pleased to meet you. I'm Dr. Parker, and I'm the Chief Medical Officer of the human side of things here."

"It's very nice to meet you, too, Dr. Parker."

Will excused himself to see to his duties. Parker told him, "I should have a preliminary report for you soon."

"OK." He told Sarah and Amaranth, "See you at lunch."

Sarah didn't kiss him, since everyone avoided PDAs (public displays of affection) in duty areas. But after ten years of marriage, she was perfectly capable of smiling a kiss.

Parker ushered them back into medbay, and a nurse checked a clipboard and sent them to a curtained-off cubicle. There was a gown on the bed; Amaranth stepped behind a curtain to put it on.

She could hear Dr. Parker speaking to someone with a deep, rumbling yet reassuring voice. "How was your flight, Doctor?"

"Very nice. You were absolutely right to insist."

"I have vorn enough of experience with Ratchet to know that it is sometimes necessary where stubborn healers are concerned."

"Have you noted any changes?"

"Yes, her eyes are moving more, and she tried twice to pull at the apparatus. When I caught her hand and spoke to her, she calmed and I think went back into a deep sleep."

"Those are both very good signs. She's trying to wake up, and she's reacting to stimulus. Those are meaningful and positive indications of brain function. We're going to have to wait until she wakes up to do a full assessment. Her brainwave readings are quite different from human, and I have no baseline."

"I see."

"Call me when she wakes up. I don't think it will be much longer."

"Is the poison out of her system now?"

Paper rustled, and Parker replied, "Wheeljack hasn't sent the latest results back yet, unless they're on the datapad in my office. But the last few results have been extremely promising. We're dealing now with whatever injuries the poison caused. I'm going to stop the dialysis after this dwell, so we can test her kidney function."

Optimus looked up the term "dwell," and found that it referred to the length of time the fluid was allowed to remain in a patient's body before being replaced. "You mean, she might have to continue the treatment."

"Possibly. The kidneys and liver are extremely stressed by poisoning because it's their job to get impurities out of our bodies. They could have been injured attempting to remove the drug before I was able to start the dialysis process. We'll just have to wait and see what kinds of supportive care she's going to need while she heals.

"Stay with her, keep talking to her, reassure her that she's safe among friends so she doesn't wake up any more stressed than necessary. I think she'll be back with us within the joor."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Amaranth heard water splashing as Dr. Parker washed her hands between patients, then the stretchy snap of a fresh pair of rubber gloves.

A moment later, the curtains opened and Dr. Parker came in. "Hi, Amaranth. Sarah, are we still meeting at 1800 hours to discuss the Halloween party, or do you want to reschedule it for later in the week?"

"Maybe we should do that, to give me a few days to get Amaranth settled. I need to go shopping for her. Annabelle's things are a size too small."

"Do you want me to watch Annabelle?"

"No, she needs new shoes. I'll do all the shopping at once."

"OK. I might bring Johnnie if you don't care, his pants are turning into floods."

"That'd be good."

Parker turned to Amaranth, who had been sitting quietly, but listening to every word. "Sweetie, could you get on the scales here, and let me see how big you are?"

Amaranth did so. Parker said that she was just as tall as a girl her age was supposed to be, and weighed what she should. She commented to Sarah that there were no signs of malnutrition.

The rest of the exam was similar. The doctor looked in her eyes and ears and mouth, made her stick her tongue out and say "Ahh." She listened all over with her stethoscope, and asked her to take deep breaths. Dr. Parker took some blood, but it only pinched a little, and Parker apologized for that.

No one had ever apologized to Amaranth for hurting her before.

When she was finished, Dr. Parker fished in the copious pocket of her lab coat for something.

It was a red ball on a paper stick, wrapped in plastic. Amaranth took it and thanked her, then looked at it quizzically.

Sarah said, "I don't think she knows what it is. Sweetie, it's a lollipop. It's candy, you take the plastic off and eat it. It's a treat, because you were a good girl during your exam."

Hesitantly, Amaranth unwrapped the lollipop, and looked at it for a moment more before she hesitantly put it in her mouth. Then she smiled around the lollipop stick.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Across the medbay, Roller kept a close watch on Diarwen. She had mumbled a few times, probably in Sidhe, but her eyes remained closed.

Now that she was out of immediate danger, Optimus spent a few klicks every breem checking on her, staying with Roller to talk to her when she was awake enough to mumble, or whenever Roller alerted him that something was possibly wrong, polling his frame's sensors often enough to keep track of what was going on. The rest of the time he was back at his duties, either in his office or the control center.

His office was almost, but not quite, close enough for him to reach her with his fields. It was frustrating beyond description.

Roller sent an excited string of pings. Optimus put down the datapad he was holding and jumped to the remote.

Diarwen's eyes were beginning to open, hazy and unfocused but still that beautiful silver-gray that he had been afraid he would never see again.

"Diarwen? Can you hear me?"

She blinked owlishly and said something that was slurred and broken, but clearly Sidhe. He tried to parse it through the small lexicon of Sidhe words that he had so far accumulated, but could not find a match. He thought she asked "where" something or other, and took an educated guess that she was asking where she was.

"You are home. You are safe now." He sent a ping to Dr. Parker's phone.

The doctor came in and spoke loudly and clearly. "Diarwen? Can you hear me?"

She turned to face this new speaker, but obviously was having serious trouble focusing her eyes. "A-alicia?" Her voice was soft and confused, with none of the confident strength either Optimus or Parker associated with Diarwen.

Parker said, "Yes, it's me. I'm right here. Can you see us?"

"Is fuzzy," she replied, using English words in Sidhe word order.

"Can you tell me the date?"

"...Is...October? Almost Samhain."

"Where are we?"

"NEST...so, Washington? No, that is wrong. Mission City, we are at Mission City. Alicia, what is wrong with me?" She sounded frightened, and somehow small. Optimus reached out to grasp her hand with Roller's single servo arm, no less frightened himself.

Alicia said, "You were drugged, you're still a little out of it. We're going to let you rest a little before we figure out what we need to do next. But you're safe in medbay, and we're all right here with you. You'll get through this."

"Aye..."

"Diarwen, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Hanratty's. There was something odd about a man at the bar. I do not remember now."

Alicia assured her, "It's all right. If it's important, it will come back to you."

"So very tired..."

"Get some sleep. I'll check on you again in a little while."

Diarwen's eyes closed.

Optimus asked, "Dr. Parker, what's going on with her?"

Parker said, "It's much too soon to guess. It isn't uncommon at all for patients to awaken gradually from incidents like this. We'll continue to assess her over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

"This is what human healers do for a brain injury. Do you think she may have been deprived of oxygen for too long?"

Parker struggled to maintain her professional demeanor, because that was what Optimus needed. It wasn't the first time she'd had to reassure the friends of a possible brain injury patient. In Iraq, such injuries were all too common, such that "traumatic brain injury" was noted in charts as "TBI." When something got common enough to merit its own acronym, it also got studied. Soldiers were surviving such injuries more often, and recovering to a greater extent, than would have been possible when she had first become a doctor. That increased knowledge was finding its way into civilian practice, where brain injury was more likely to be the result of a fall or an auto accident, or something like a stroke or an infection.

It was one of the great ironies of life that a great deal of those crucial medical advances were useless to Diarwen because the drugs involved were not compatible with the Sidhe physiology. They were limited to the level of medicine available to humans a generation or two ago—providing supportive care and hoping that the body could heal itself.

"As I said, Optimus, it's too soon to assume that. Even if there is some damage, for the first week or so, it's impossible to tell how much if any of it might be permanent. We've got to give her a chance to recover before we can do a full assessment. But she actually is fairly oriented, a little confused, but she knew us and figured out where she was and the time of the year. If she were human I'd be more concerned that she didn't know the date, but Diarwen never has thought in those terms. It would be like a human keeping track of minutes or seconds. We don't unless we have a need to know the exact time. I wish I could tell you something more definite, but we're going to be doing a lot of wait-and-see over the next few days."

Optimus thanked her, and returned to the same routine of going about his usual duties, checking back with Roller every few klicks to reassure himself that Diarwen was still sleeping peacefully.

A nurse capped off her dialysis catheter and moved the stand holding the bag of fluid out of the way, but left the catheter in place for now.

Once Optimus came back from a brief foray away from his data pads to find Ratchet staring at him in a way that set off all his suspicious-behavior alarms. "What is it, Ratchet? Do you need something?"

"Need to scan you. Hold still."

Optimus obliged.

Ratchet told him, "You're not getting enough recharge time. Doesn't do me any good to tell you to shut down because you'll ignore me, but if you aren't going to get some proper recharge in a real berth then plug into the grid and top off your reserves, or better yet spend some time out in the sun."

Knowing Ratchet well enough to understand that the medic was not voicing his true concerns, Optimus accepted his advice all the same and plugged a hardline into the desk, initiating protocols that allowed him to recharge from the electrical grid. This process did not allow for the usual shutdown and defrag cycle that accompanied normal recharge, but it would work fine for a little while.

Satisfied for the moment, Ratchet went on about his business.

End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

That evening, Charlotte Mearing came in after wrapping up her involvement with the Westmoreland S10 investigation. She and Simmons joined Lennox in Prime's office, the three of them sitting around a table on his desk.

She asked, "How is the Lady Diarwen today?"

"Better. She has awakened several times. Dr. Parker, however, says we will not know the eventual outcome for several days."

"And the little girl, Amaranth?"

Lennox said, "She's starting to open up about her upbringing. I hope you're going to prosecute the ones we caught alive for child abuse. Too bad Sam had to shoot Blanville, I'd have liked that privilege for myself."

"I can guarantee you that no one involved in that project will see the light of day for a long, long while, if ever. But they won't be openly prosecuted. The president has ordered the whole thing sealed, in order to protect Amaranth. If her background got out, it would make her a target for everyone from those who would like to make use of her to those who'd consider her an abomination on religious grounds. She's going to stay right here on the base, until such time as she can pass herself off as an ordinary child who happens to be a very gifted student."

"Sarah and I have been talking. We'd like to adopt her, or become her legal guardians at the very least. That child needs a family."

"We're working on a new identity for her. If you and your wife seriously want to adopt her, we can arrange that; it will seem as if you adopted a relative of your own. That will simplify the adoption process."

"If anyone ever does a DNA test on her, it'd blow that out of the water," Simmons cautioned.

Mearing nodded, but said, "If anyone ever DNA-tests her, we'll have bigger problems than proving she's related to the Colonel. But we believe that the number of people who knew about Blanville's experiments was very small. With Blanville and Darnell both dead, only Oliver and Pratt know the entire story. They're in custody, along with two other scientists. They were involved enough to be criminally liable, and they know too much to be allowed to run loose."

Optimus tilted his great head down to her to ask, "What does your government do with such people? Do they not have legal recourse against being held before charges are pressed against them?"

Mearing glanced around her, but everyone there had a clearance high enough to be told. "National security is the only thing that trumps those rights. Blanville knew what he was doing, and signed the same agreements that I did regarding matters of national security. Also, he and the scientists working with him knew how many laws they were breaking when they decided to start these experiments in the first place. We're pragmatic enough not to throw away their genius. They'll be held in a secure community, and their scientific expertise will be put to use under very closely controlled conditions. Google Operation Paperclip for an example following the second World War. Hitler's rocket scientists were sent to White Sands and put to work on our space program. As for Blanville and his gang—they'll agree to it, and sign some extremely strict non-disclosure forms. If they won't, we'll prosecute them under Patriot Act provisions to suppress information that's considered a matter of national security, and try them in a closed court, where the evidence against them is such that they'll spend the rest of their lives in a cell. Out of curiosity, Optimus, what would you do with them?"

"When I was acting as a head of state, Director, we were at war, and such actions would have constituted treason. I had a number of operatives who performed a function very similar to your own. Rather than have information like this benefit the Decepticons, I would have sent an operative to deal with them in the event that I could not be certain of their continued loyalty. A rogue scientist could do as much damage as any number of saboteurs. In peacetime, my actions would have been different. If it were possible to maintain a reasonable level of public safety while keeping them alive, I would have opted for such a confinement, rather than sanction them." The Autobot leader smiled briefly, without any humor in his expression at all. "So you see, Director, I concur with your solution for them, so long as we can be reasonably certain that they no longer present a threat to the girl."

Mearing said, "I've already informed them that I will deal personally with any of them who ever attempt to pose such a threat. If they know what's good for them, they'll forget that Amaranth existed."

"And what of Amaranth, should there be a change in administration four years or eight years down the road, and the new president decides that she is too great an asset to ignore?"

Mearing replied, "I hope that fourteen years down the road, she's going to decide for herself that achieving her full potential in the service of her country is a good and honorable way to live her life. Whether she chooses the military or academics, or some other path we haven't anticipated, society stands the best chance of reaping the benefits of that potential if we give her the best upbringing we possibly can. Anything else would be counterproductive. It would be my duty to strongly advise any administration against actions that might undermine loyalty, or create an unnecessary risk of the leak of classified information."

There was an unmistakable threat in her quiet words. This was a woman who knew how to be the power behind the throne, when necessary. Optimus favored her with a slow, regal nod. "Director."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Mikaela sat on the end of her roommate's bed. "How are you feeling?"

Diarwen nodded. "Better, I think. They took that port out a little while ago. I am much more comfortable now. They did another assessment this afternoon."

"Did they tell you anything?"

Diarwen shook her head. "They only smile, and say to be patient. I am not patient. I believe I that I shall drown Alicia in my water pitcher if she does not tell me something sensible, very soon."

Kaela laughed.

"You think that I am not serious. Once I was a feared warrior. Now I am a—a broken thing in medbay. I wish to know if that is to be my permanent fate."

"If you really wanted to leave, they've have a helluva time stopping you. Just sayin'."

"What is the point? I cannot concentrate to read. I become angry for no good reason, and snap at everyone. My emotions fly about like leaves on a high wind, and I cannot tame them. And I—I—" she picked up a magazine and held it out, demonstrating how her whole arm shook. "I am no warrior. What the Fomor, the Unseelie Court, the Inquisition could not do in seventeen thousand years, one insignificant little coward managed with a single treacherous blow."

"You don't know that this is permanent."

"Nor do I know that it is not. I have overcome everything that fate has thrown at me, but at this, I draw the line. I will not live like this, Mikaela, nothing but an object of pity and a burden to all who care about me."

Mikaela said, "You can whine to me all you want to, but if you say anything like that to Chip, he'll drag you out of that bed and bust your ass."

"I am quite sure that he would, and there would be little that I could do in this state to stop him."

"I won't let you become a burden. I'll work with you, do everything it takes, to get back everything you possibly can, for the rest of my life if I have to. You got Alicia on your team, she's the best there is. Betony and her partner are coming in, ETA's twelve hours. And you got Optimus. When Ratchet told him he was risking his well-being as well as Roller's if he didn't shut them both down for a full joor, he wouldn't listen until I promised to stay right here with you." Mikaela slapped her palms down on her knees, a gesture she'd long forgotten she picked up from her father. "Now you listen to me. I don't know what's going on with the two of you, but I know Optimus has lost damn near everything. Don't talk to me about 'not living like this' until you really and truly think about what it'll do to him if you act on that."

"When will I ever be free to be selfish? You are asking me to settle for life in a prison cell which I cannot escape because it has no walls. I, too, have lost 'damn near everything.' I have no more to give, Kaela."

Strong arms wrapped around Diarwen, and the engineer shed the tears that Diarwen was too proud to cry. The Sidhe's hands tangled in Kaela's tee-shirt, in the strands of her hair, as she silently trembled. Kaela asked, "Then what do you have to lose? What can it hurt to try?"

"I am—very tired. Perhaps if I sleep, things will make more sense in the morning. And then—I know that I need to be away from these walls, out somewhere that I can touch the Earth and let Her heal me. Being trapped in here is a living death."

"Get some rest. Tomorrow, Alicia better have a really good reason not to let you out for at least an hour or so."

When she lay back, Kaela pulled the blanket over her and turned off her light, which didn't really darken her cubicle but did get the glare out of her eyes. Mikaela sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair which seemed to be standard issue for hospital rooms, and stared off into the distance, engineering mind racing over the possibilities, heart aching for her friend.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus prowled his quarters for a while. He had already put Roller into recharge, but could not initiate his own shutdown sequence while his systems were on such a high state of alert.

Ratchet had threatened a medical override, and Optimus knew if he refused to allow that, the CMO would go to Ironhide and Sideswipe for backup—and would be right to do so. With a long ex-vent, the Prime stretched out on his berth and settled into a meditative state, which he knew was close enough to shutdown to allow for a defragmentation sequence. It would perhaps even settle his processor enough that he could sleep. In any case, he knew the results of the scan that Ratchet would run the first chance he got would satisfy the medic for another short period.

Gaia gave a comforting pulse. Suddenly feeling guilty that he had neglected her during the crisis, he let his fields settle into the state of calm that allowed him to join her in that world-between-worlds where they interacted.

This time, she chose to appear there in her bot form, a tiny femme with prismatic optics that shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow. She held up her little arms and he picked her up.

She went beyond the whistles and chirps of sparkling language, putting a few glyphs together to get her message across. "Where Diarwen? I no find her."

"Diarwen had an accident. She's in medbay, and Healer Parker is taking good care of her."

"You _fix _her!"

"I do not know how, sweetspark. I know that it is possible, for Diarwen did it herself when Skysong was hurt. But I have tried and I cannot heal her when she is so far away from me."

"You know how to spirit-fly. Same thing!"

"I will try again, little one."

"Gaia help!"

"I know you will. You are very strong and very kind."

There was a flood of innocent warmth from Gaia, then he was back in his quarters again.

He thought about it. His previous attempts to heal Diarwen had failed because the distance from his spark was too great for him to focus the energy necessary for a healing. But Gaia was right. He had become fairly adept at astral projection. He knew that his spark, and Gaia's, provided the energy for spells, or more properly, drew it up from Mother Earth and held it ready until he was prepared to finish the spell. But it was the spirit, the astral form, his true Self, which exerted control.

If he projected to Diarwen, perhaps he would be able to pull the energy across that distance, and use it to heal.

The High Priestess Moonsilver had given him an astral-projection charm when he and Diarwen had taken temporary refuge at their farm. That had been on his journey from Chicago back to the NEST Headquarters in Washington to get his battle damage repaired. He found it now, and prepared himself to use it.

Slipping free of his frame, looking down at it while it appeared to be as much dead as in recharge, was not the near-panic-inducing experience it had been the first time he had done this—not that he would have admitted to such panic with Diarwen, Jazz, and most especially little Gaia there—but it still was somewhat _disconcerting._

He pushed that aside. "Gaia, stay here in case I need you to help me raise energy. This is where that will be happening."

She nodded. "OK, Optimus!" She dived back into her frame, safely docked next to his spark.

Optimus drifted through the walls, but avoided phasing through other people. Astral forms, ghosts, whatever one wanted to call them, caused living things to experience a distinct and unpleasant chill if they occupied the same space.

Diarwen was soundly sleeping, and Mikaela was reading something on a human-sized datapad. Neither of them, nor the two nurses on duty in the medbay, were aware of him. Parker, however, looked up from her desk, trying to determine what had disturbed her report writing, and scowled when she saw and heard nothing. Optimus remembered that Diarwen had told him Parker had exhibited some potential talent with energy manipulation.

That was a complication. If she realized what he was doing, she would tell Ratchet, and the consequences would be awkward. He would have to be circumspect.

He meshed his fields gently with Diarwen's. She stirred in her sleep, then settled back, smiling, twining her outer field with his.

He could sense the dark gray fog of injury. Some of it, a fine black web, was permanent, but every organic—and bot as well—had a small amount of that, from exposure to solar radiation, from the various injuries and illnesses and exposures to toxic substances that were an unavoidable consequence of living a life. It was when one received damage that overwhelmed the natural layers of redundancy built into every living thing that real problems began.

The incompatible sedative that Diarwen had been given had done just that. The damage was highly diffuse, probably invisible on scanners either Cybertronian or human. But the important thing was, it was the gray of damage, not the black absence of life.

_Magical healing is usually not a matter of instantaneously restoring the patient to a pre-injury state. It is rather the creation of an optimal condition for healing to occur. Support, facilitate, encourage—do not force unless it is a matter of life and death, _Diarwen had instructed him and Gaia.

He reached back along the thread of connection to his frame, and drew mana through that connection, then began to channel it through their interlaced fields. Though Diarwen could not raise the energy to heal herself, her body could use what he made available to her. The gray fog began to dissipate around the edges, grounding back to Mother Earth.

Without intent to do so, all three of them gradually slipped into deep, healing rest. Once the magic ran its course, Moonsilver's charm ended the session.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next morning, Optimus was wakened by a series of excited pings from Roller. He put away the charm, then, leaving his frame to complete the reboot sequence on its own, jumped to his remote.

Parker and Mikaela were looking at each other. Kaela was saying, "I didn't see anything, and I was right here the whole time! She was really upset yesterday evening and wore herself out, then she went to sleep, and this morning she was like this. I don't know what happened."

Parker said, "It had to be magical healing, but she shouldn't have been capable of this. She is simply not able to channel the energy that her magic requires."

"She was pretty desperate yesterday. Maybe, subconsciously, she tapped into something."

Diarwen stirred sleepily and said, "_She_ is right here, and can hear you perfectly well. Alicia is correct, Kaela, I could not have done this."

Optimus swore them all to secrecy from Ratchet, then admitted what he had done.

Parker said, "Prime, I gave my word and I won't break it—but the next time it'll be a different story. I'm not going to help you sneak around and do stuff ADA, at least not without a prior discussion."

"ADA" was "Against Doctor's Advice," a crime in Parker's book. Optimus didn't understand; if it helped, why not? But he nodded. He'd talk to her about it later. Much, much later.

"Agreed," Diarwen replied. "I will not get into the question of healing people without their consent, since we both know that as a matter of course I would have given it. But I do not want you risking your health. Ratchet undoubtedly had good reason for ordering you to rest."

"He did. But you were not the only one to benefit. I rested very well, as a matter of fact, and am in much better condition that I have been for some time. Therefore, technically, I did obey Ratchet's orders...in a manner of speaking."

"No different from projecting in one's sleep, I suppose, a thing that humans and Sidhe both do from time to time," she admitted.

Parker told Optimus and Mikaela, "Out, both of you. I need to do a full assessment to see how this has affected Diarwen's recovery."

Diarwen gave a theatrical groan, but nodded, hoping in spite of herself. Because she wanted the answers as much as Parker did, she submitted with good grace to all the poking, prodding and measuring that the CMO wanted to do. Then Roller and Kaela were allowed to return while they waited for the results of those tests.

Diarwen conducted her own test, however, which resulted in a great deal of information. She reached for the magazine on her bedside stand and held it out. It still shook, a little, but there was a marked improvement over the night before.

Mikaela looked at both of them, said, "Damn! What a time to have to go on shift," She collected her things, gave Diarwen a swift hug, nodded at Optimus, and left the two of them to wait for Parker's verdict.

Diarwen sat up in bed, reaching behind her to tweak a flat, hard pillow into a better position. "Optimus?"

"Yes, I am here. Apparently, glitter is evil."

"Ah. —What brought that on?"

"The little twins decided that things were getting much too serious around here, and pranked Sunstreaker with a balloon full of pink glitter. I have not yet ascertained where they acquired this. In any case, Sunstreaker was not amused. Rather than going directly to the washracks and removing it, he proceeded to transform and chase the little twins out to the proving grounds—spreading the glitter throughout his internals in the process. He arrived in medbay on Ironhide's flatbed, and is now having the glitter removed by medical cleansing."

"That sounds unpleasant."

"To put it mildly," Optimus replied. "It involves having solvent sprayed under pressure, er, well, just about everywhere, and that is not to belittle the experience of having scrub brushes introduced into places that logic insists are too small for them. Trust me, you find sensors in places that you had no idea existed. To add insult to injury, such an intricate procedure takes upwards of a joor, and requires frequent small transformations to open up other areas for cleaning."

"Ach. Poor Sunstreaker."

"Had he paused for an astroklick to contemplate the wisdom of transformation while covered with a cloud of small conductive particles, he would not be in this situation. Ratchet is perturbed with him."

"What are you going to do about Skids and Mudflap?"

"They are escorting the supply runs for the next orn, and confined to quarters otherwise. That will be extended if Sunstreaker's recovery is in any way complicated. And they had better stay out of Sideswipe's way."

Their conversation was punctuated by a loud string of bellowed profanities from the mecha side of medbay, immediately followed by a few even louder phrases of very angry Cybertronian: Sideswipe.

Roller's optics went dark and a moment later, she heard Optimus shout at Sideswipe to stand down. She couldn't understand more than a few words of the big twin's aggrieved and indignant reply, but a few moments later she heard both Ratchet and Jolt enter the altercation.

To her curiosity, a moment later, Ratchet stormed out of medbay and took off, angrily spraying gravel behind him. Jolt and Sides were saying something soothing to Sunstreaker, who still sounded hurt and angry. A few moments later, she heard Optimus leave medbay and head for the control center.

Alicia Parker came back with a datapad. "What was all that about?"

"I do not know enough Cybertronian to translate. But the whole thing apparently began with a balloon full of pink glitter."

Parker considered this information thoughtfully, then said with great precision, "On second thought, I do not believe that I want to know."

"That is probably wise."

"I have your results here. This one, the EEG, is the most important one. It shows increased organized activity over the one we took yesterday. That's very good. Now, your brainwave patterns are different enough from those of humans that I can't be sure of anything specific, but I can say that there are many fewer gross abnormalities, and the ones that still exist are less pronounced. Some healing has clearly taken place. I'll repeat the test in twenty-four hours and we'll make another comparison then.

"Your blood chemistry is much closer to samples that were taken before the attack. Now, I can't really use that as a baseline, because you haven't been truly well since before you came into my care. But we do have some data showing how exhaustion and stress affect you. This looks very promising."

Diarwen said, "I have the sense that you are attempting to downplay good news in order to avoid disappointing me later, should something not work out as we hope."

"Yes, I think that's fair, to a point. I do think, after last night, the possibility exists that you might heal from your injuries. It looks good, right now. But I don't know what a textbook case should look like. We're writing the textbook as we go along. And as you said, I don't want to create a disappointment for you later."

"I understand. I will attempt to restrain myself."

Parker grinned at the dry wit; a human patient who had recovered her sense of humor was 90% of the way back. She didn't think the Sidhe was all that much different, basic chemistries notwithstanding. Parker came out of her head to find Diarwen saying, "What do you advise now?"

"Well, I think you need to be out of this bed, and out of the building as soon as possible." She stopped for a moment, considered to whom she was speaking, and added, "That is not permission to attempt sword dancing yet. For now, walking and gentle stretching are what you should be concentrating on. You may need to retrain your sense of balance. Take small steps in attempting the things that you normally do during a day. Expect setbacks. You'll have to tell me what we need to work on. We'll design the therapy you need around whatever turns up."

"So, we still don't know what my final outcome will be."

"Diarwen, even with humans, as much baseline information as we have for ourselves, there's no way to predict that. You're much better now than you were, and that's all anyone can tell you at this point."

"I understand."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ironhide pulled up to the front of the Lennox house in his alt form. He popped up not one but three child seats in the back. Sarah and Alicia secured a squirming Annabelle and Johnny, and a very dubious Amaranth, in the child seats. Amaranth asked, "How do I get out if we wreck?"

Ironhide hummed approval. The sparkling had a sense of self-preservation, something he often bemoaned that Annabelle had not yet seemed to develop.

Sarah said, "We'll get you out, don't worry."

Ironhide tugged her restraint to direct her attention to the seat belt closure, and flexed the button a little. A slow grin spread across her small face, as she touched it and figured out how hard she had to push it before the closure disengaged. He could lock it, of course—and did, for Annabelle and Johnny, who might well abandon the seats and bounce around his cabin like glitchmice if he didn't. But Amaranth was different. Confining someone who hadn't done anything wrong, and was mature enough to stay put unless it was safer to do otherwise, went against everything he believed.

Amaranth reached over and very gently patted his door frame, with a sly little "we-have-a-secret" smile.

Sarah, pretending to drive, directed Ironhide to an outlet mall, a group of businesses where chain stores sold unwanted inventory at a discount. He thoroughly scanned the area, then parked as near the entrance as possible, and stood guard duty while the two adults took the children inside the first store.

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough; Ironhide recharged in the hot sun while his charges darted in and out of the various stores, gradually loading his bed and filling the floor of his back seat with various bags and boxes. The last stop was their usual grocery store, to stock up on things that they preferred not to buy at the Nellis base exchange. By then, Amaranth was chattering excitedly about all the new things she'd seen and the new books she had, while Johnny and Annabelle were tired, and as a result, cranky.

Ironhide activated the back seat video player and put on a movie for them. Johnny and Annabelle were soon dozing in their car seats, but Amaranth was fascinated. "Where do ponies fly? That can't be real!"

"It isn't, honey," Parker explained. "It's just a made-up story. It doesn't have to be real-life to be fun to watch."

"But what do we learn from it? Is it useful?"

"Well, even though the characters are made up, they teach us that it's important to be nice to other people and to take the time to listen to our families. We can learn a lot of important things from stories. But it's also important that they're fun."

Annabelle said sleepily, "I have a pony. She's on my aunt's farm in Maryland. We get to visit sometimes. I miss my pony."

Johnny asked, "Mommy, can I have a pony?"

Parker corrected, "'May I,' and we'll have to see about that."

On the way back to base, Amaranth sat watching out her window as the desert scenery flashed by.

There was so much more to see than she ever could have imagined back at the facility, and people were so much nicer Outside.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam brought Carly some crackers and the herbal tea she had taken up drinking in order to avoid caffeine. "How are you feeling? I didn't know morning sickness was supposed to last this long. You're five months along."

"According to Alicia, Sarah and Mo, it can be any time of day, and it can last up until the baby's born. I don't sick up as often any more. This time, it's your fault. You and Bobby and Bee—you could have been killed. You scared the life out of me."

"I'm sorry. But what else could we have done?"

Carly sipped her tea. "Not a thing, I know that. If I'd been there, I'd have done the same. I'm not blaming you, Sam, I'm not. I just wonder sometimes if we're completely mad. What kind of world are we bringing this child into?"

Sam was silent a moment. "The best one we can make. When my parents were protesting nuclear weapons and marching against racism, I just wanted us to be normal, which to me meant them not doing that: and not getting arrested for it. Now that the baby's on the way, I know what they were fighting for."

"Not every battle worth winning is fought with swords and guns," Carly said.

"How's your book coming?"

Carly looked up. That was one of Sam's apparent tangents that really wasn't tangential at all. Her book was part of fighting one of those non-violent battles, for knowledge and understanding. "It isn't so much what to put in it as what to leave out. You can't understand what happened here on Earth without some history of Cybertron, but good God, their history goes back an unimaginable length of time. Anything I put in one book is going to be an awful oversimplification. I think I've found my life's work, Sam."

"Writing the definitive history of the first interaction of modern humans with an alien species?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"At this point? Umm, how are you at interviews?"

"All right, I suppose, I took a couple of journalism classes in college."

"Here's the thing. The interviews I need concern some of the most horrible things that happened in the war for Cybertron. These are pivotal points that set things inevitably on a course for Mission City and Chicago. But they were also...I can't imagine that they could be anything other than the worst times of some of the bots' lives. You know them better than I do. The bots I've talked to all agree someone's going to write this. They want it to be factual, and they want their voices to be heard. But I also don't want to ask anything unnecessarily cruel, you know?"

"I get it," Sam said. "I'll help."

"Thank you, love."

"Carly, it's usually only the winners who get to write the history books. This project is making sure that the 'Cons get the chance to tell their side of it too. Optimus told me this wasn't a one-sided war, good guys versus bad guys. There was a lot of good on both sides at the beginning. Over the centuries, a lot of the things that the 'Cons started out fighting for, ideals that Megatron abandoned as he went further and further off the deep end, were taken up by the Autobots, as they moved closer to the center. I think there's a lesson to be learned in that. Every form of extremism has liabilities."

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "And that's a thing that hasn't changed over millennia, not for them, and not for us."

End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen's fields were calm and peaceful as Optimus pulled into their usual spot at Buzzard Rock. He released her seat belt, and held his door steady so that she could brace herself as she carefully climbed down. She said, "Somehow it did not seem so far to the ground when I could simply jump down."

He rumbled a laugh. "You are doing much better today than you did yesterday."

"I did not fall on my face in the sand, you mean," she replied. "Optimus, this is amazing. I can sense the surrounding aura much more clearly than I have since Chicago. It is as though I did not realize that I was wearing a veil until the wind caught it."

"Dr. Parker informed me that I apparently replaced a great deal of your neural net. It is one thing to hear Ratchet tell me how Guardian Prime accomplished such things. It is another thing, a frightening thing, to have done it myself. I am a fairly good battlefield medic for my own kind—Primus, I would not be here now if I did not know how to seal off a bleeding line or separate shorted wires. But when it comes to anything more complicated than that, or anything at all with organics, I am out of my depth. What if I did something wrong, and harmed you?"

"That is why I have taught you to assist your patients to heal themselves. Acushla, you have time to learn what you find lacking. With that learning will come greater control, in time. Perhaps you should speak to Ratchet and Alicia, ask them to teach you."

"I am not Ratchet's favorite person at this time. If I were to ask him anything, it would come across as a command."

"I am sorry to have been the cause of it."

"You are not," Optimus assured her. "This latest—let's say altercation— between Ratchet and Sunstreaker has arisen because Ratchet has many changes to make, now that the war has ended. Some of my bots do not have the patience to let him adapt in his own time, and in this case, they were right to be impatient with him. Ratchet was unhappy that I took their side."

"I heard some of that, but I did not understand every word," Diarwen said.

"I do not know that it is my place to go into greater detail. Of a certainty, mechs shouting at one another in the middle of medbay cannot expect privacy—but they were shouting in Cybertronian."

"Am I wrong to think that he felt my influence caused you to side against him?"

"Ratchet did not say as much, but I have that impression as well."

"Optimus, am I going to have to fight him for you? Is he jealous?"

"What—no! There has never been anything between us. Ratchet was cohort with Ironhide and Chromia long before they found me. They are my sparkling cohort, along with Chromia's sisters, and a few others who are no longer with us. I think in many ways Ratchet still sees me as that small sparkling magnalocked to Ironhide's plating. Letting go is not easy for him. It is deep in his programming to keep us all as safe as he can."

"Ach, if that programming has attached to the Big Twins, I do not envy him."

"When they first came to us, they were fugitives from the Kaon arenas. After all these vorn, I still do not know everything that happened in that pit of a place. They were under Ratchet's care for many orn. They certainly did not need a guardian, but Ratchet came closest to fulfilling that role, I think."

Diarwen put her towel and water bottle on a convenient rock, then began a series of stretches with all the concentration and precision of one of her katas. "This is a journey that he must make himself, I am afraid."

"Still, it would help if Sunstreaker could be more patient with him. He—Sunny, that is—can never simply say 'no' when he can express the same sentiment with a string of invective."

"That was the pain speaking, I think."

Optimus ex-vented a sigh. "It was, but not entirely. That was _Sunstreaker._"

"And Sideswipe saw no further than someone hurting his twin unnecessarily."

"You understand enough of what you heard."

"Is Sunstreaker all right?"

"Yes, I believe so. He was more amenable to Jolt's care. And while Ratchet might make a procedure unpleasant in order to drive a lesson home, he would never intentionally harm any of us."

"I might take issue with the wrench-throwing."

"He's never thrown one hard enough to leave more than a superficial dent. The accompanying lectures are worse."

Diarwen sat down to stretch her legs. "Then there is nothing you can do."

"I know. It saddens me, though, that he thinks by rejecting his advice, I am rejecting him."

"You are giving him what he needs—time and patience. The truth is you have done everything but reject him. In time, he will see that." Then she winced and swore in Sidhe as her back objected to a deep stretch.

Optimus transformed and put his warm servo over her back, one gentle digit rubbing the sore spot. "I think that your body is telling you that is enough for today."

"Mmm. I do not want to delay my recovery by overdoing."

"We will return tomorrow. Betony will be here soon, in any case."

"Yes, we should go to meet her. I hope that she can stay over Samhain."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

By the time they got back to base, Betony Lennox and her partner Jaime Anderson had arrived. Will hugged his sister and shook hands with Jaime. When Betony saw Diarwen climbing carefully down from Optimus' cab, she raced over to help. "Diarwen, you're up and around! When Will talked to me on the phone you were still on bed rest."

"I am much improved."

"Let's sit down over here. I swear, I can't take my eyes off you without you landing in the hospital. What happened this time?"

"Someone shot me with a dart from behind, and the sedative in it almost killed me."

Betony felt the rage and helplessness behind that quiet statement. "Who did it? Did they catch him?"

"Yes, yes, he's locked up," the Sidhe assured her, glossing over who had been responsible.

"Oh, Diarwen." Betony held her close.

Optimus transformed and said, "Diarwen, Dr. Parker has just commed me and ordered you to your bed."

Diarwen looked up and saw Parker looking at her from the hangar door, with a cell phone stuck to her ear. She waved, and told Optimus, "I will do as she says. Betony, would you like to come with me?"

"Yes, of course. Jaime! I'm going with Diarwen to her apartment."

"OK, I could get us a room in Tranquility and come back for you after while. I want to find a garage to get that noise she's been makin' looked at."

"Yeah, call me if they tell you anything today."

"Will do," Jaime replied. "Catch you later, Will."

"Sure. Give Kaela a call and ask her where to take your truck."

"Thanks, yeah, I'll do that."

Betony accompanied Diarwen to her quarters. She had it to herself for the time being, while Mikaela was on duty. Diarwen kicked off her boots and lay down. "How was your trip from Denver?"

"Good. Weird run though."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, we usually deadhead when we leave Chicago? We carry way more in than out of there. Some of the companies that weren't affected by the fighting are up and running again, but there's still a ways to go. Well, the last three trips, we've been hired to haul a box, it's padlocked and sealed when we get it, but they've gone to three different freight depots. Like, we're not supposed to know where it ends up, so someone else picks it up and takes it the last leg. At first I thought, you know, since Will's my brother, it might be The Company doing something. Hush-hush, black ops, all that stuff. But the last time? I had a funny feeling about it."

"Is Will looking into it?"

"I think he threw it upstairs. It's probably more that Simmons guy's kind of thing. But I just thought you might know some of the right people from the Gulf, to ask a few questions? If it came out of Langley, fine, right? But what if it _didn't _come out of Langley?"

"Well, I would first go to Mr. Simmons with a question such as this. But I have another idea."

"Annnd, that would be?"

"The next time you have such an assignment, have one of the Cybertronians meet you along the way and scan this cargo box."

"But what if it is the CIA and we poke into something we shouldn't?"

"Then you go your separate ways and pretend that it never happened, aye?"

Betony nodded. There were lots of deserted stretches of roads where such a scan could be done with no one the wiser. "I guess I ought to set up some kind of code words with Will before I leave."

"Yes, I think you should."

"Anyway, enough about that. How are you really and what can I do to help?"

"I was very lucky, Betony. I was without oxygen—it caused brain damage. I could not even hold a magazine in front of me without it shaking like a leaf in a high wind. I could not control my legs to walk. And that was not the worst of it. I could not _read. _Oh, I could see the words on the page in front of me—but they might as well have been written in some foreign language for all the sense I could make of them. Had Optimus not learned enough of magical healing to be able to help me help myself, I might never have recovered."

"Oh, Goddess, Diarwen."

"But he did, and I am on my way to getting well."

"It's too much too soon, first Chicago, and then overreaching yourself to save that poor sparkling, and now this. You have to be more careful."

"Dr. Parker has already given me that lecture, and believe me, I mean to be more careful. But this time—I was standing outside Hanratty's waiting for Optimus to pick me up, when that son of a harlot struck me from behind. I am angry with him. I am even more angry with myself for my carelessness! But what should I do? Hide on the base at all times? Go about in armor from morning til night? Optimus barely lets me out of his sight, if not personally then by means of his remote."

"Was this an attack on you, or an attempt to get at him through you?"

"Ach, it was meant for me. My past came back to haunt me. But, thank you, Betony. I had not thought of myself as the chink in Optimus' armor. I suppose I am that, now, to him and the rest of you."

"Like I was, with both Will and you, when the Cons grabbed me in Chicago," Betony said. "We can't help that."

Diarwen nodded. "I know. But I am not used to being a liability."

"I doubt that you are. It just seems that way because you're the world's worst patient. You want to be well right now, not sit by while you heal. Once you get back to normal, you won't be a liability to anyone."

Diarwen made a grumpy noise. "Without my magic, I will never be back to normal."

"This is the new normal, for the time being, anyway," Betony told her. "Let the rest of us look out for you 'til you're back on your feet. It's what you'd do for us."

"I suppose."

Betony smiled at the disbelief in that tone. World's worst patient, indeed. "Do you want to come back to Maryland to recuperate? I'm going to be at the farm from the middle of November until after the first of January. I've got a regular run between Baltimore and New York that will have me home most nights."

"How did that happen?"

"Jaime's brother-in-law broke his leg, so I'm going to cover his runs until the doctor says he can drive again. He has someone for the next couple of weeks, then I'm taking over."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that about Jaime's brother-in-law. But I thought his sister drove."

"She does, but we'd rather have her watching Shad. He's not allowed to walk on his leg yet, and he will if someone doesn't keep an eye on him."

"You sound like Dr. Parker."

"And you sound like Shad," Betony shot back, grinning. "Come on, you know you like the farm. And we can always go for cra-a-a-ab ca-a-a-a-akes."

"You had to mention those. Now I am going to want them."

"Come home for a few days. Being back on the land will do you good."

"I know it would. But there is much here that I would miss."

Betony looked up, aware that Diarwen was not telling her the whole story, but she would get it out of her enigmatic friend eventually.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Soon after Jaime came back for Betony, Mikaela came in covered in coolant and headed straight for the shower. "Kaela, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, I just need to wash this off before it starts irritating my skin." Diarwen heard her stripping out of her jumpsuit, then the shower came on.

She came out wearing a towel, with another one wrapped around her head. "Have you got the blow-dryer in here?"

"I have not seen it."

"Damn. I'll have to go back to work with wet hair."

"How did you get soaked with that, was someone hurt?"

"Not seriously, Que had a small explosion on his workbench and some shrapnel nicked a line in his servo. He's fine, but when I pulled the shrapnel, it sprayed all over me. Took me a second to stop the leak." Mikaela came over and gave her a critical look. "You've been doing too much today. Do you want me to get you something to eat before you get some sleep?"

"Yes. An apple and a glass of milk?"

"Comin' up. I got some cranberry muffins here, do you want one? I can warm it up and put some butter on it. Mo Epps made 'em from scratch this morning."

"That does sound good."

After her snack, Diarwen turned on her datapad and worked on her translation for a while. She was distracted by the similarities and differences in a selection of related glyphs—the Cybertronian equivalent of rhyme—and spent a few minutes with the lexicon. She noted two in the translation file for clarification, and sent the updated file. Momentarily, Optimus texted her and they exchanged a few good-night messages. Then she turned her lamp off and drifted into sleep.

Early the next morning, she went to medbay for her morning checkup. That amounted to nothing more than having her vitals taken and reporting to Parker that she'd had no unexpected symptoms since her last visit the day before. Parker had her walk a straight line and balance on one foot; when she successfully accomplished that without landing in a heap on the floor, Parker allowed her to begin sword-dancing again—at the proving ground, where there would be others around to aid her should she need it, and with caution in any case.

"I mean it, Diarwen," the doctor said, scowling.

Diarwen attempted to scowl back, but couldn't, quite. "Yes, I know that. I shall take it in fifteen-minute segments, one the first day, two the next, and so forth. Will that please you?"

Parker shut her datapad with a snap. "That's it, I'm putting you on med watch. You're clearly too ill to be uncooperative."

Diarwen froze like a deer in the headlights, then relaxed as the skin around Parker's eyes crinkled up. "Not funny, Doctor Parker."

"Not to you, maybe, but I enjoyed it quite a bit," Parker said with a grin. "It's looking better all the time, Diarwen. Just don't push it too hard, that's all I ask."

"Harrumph. I suppose I can do, or rather not do, that."

On her way out of the medbay, she passed a soldier who had come in to get a scratch treated. A white gauze bandage poked out from the neck of his black uniform.

Images flickered over one another, the soldier, a priest's collar. An instant away from drawing her knife to defend herself against a perceived threat, she pushed herself away and fled out the back door, getting as far away from the buildings and out into the desert as she could before she collapsed to the sand.

She had no idea which image was reality. All she knew to do was ground herself, reaching out to Mother Earth with everything that she was.

Gradually her heartbeat slowed, her breathing grew less ragged.

Common sense told her the bandaged soldier was reality, the priest a phantom of her fear and prejudice—but common sense could not persuade her of that.

Roller came to a stop nearby, and she threw herself at the remote, shaking and fighting not to burst into tears.

Optimus asked her, "What happened, beloved?"

"I—I believe I had a flashback. Merciful Brigit, I thought there was a priest. I feared for my life. I might have killed an innocent man, had I been unable to remove myself from the situation."

"You did not. That is the important thing."

"The important thing is that I nearly lost control of myself. You know what I am capable of. I will _not_ allow myself to turn on our people here, out of fear and hatred grown beyond my control."

"How can I be of help?"

"I am going up to Buzzard Rock to meditate and determine what I must do rid myself of this. If you and the rest of the circle could join me there, coming and going as you must, I would be most grateful for your support."

She was never alone for a moment that day. Deep in meditation, she was only peripherally aware of their support, but it never wavered.

Optimus left Roller with her while he got his day's work into a state where he could deal with it via wireless. He had two meetings that morning, one with Lennox and the other with Dr. Millhouse of S9. Both of them were too important to miss, yet not as important as Diarwen's need for him. As soon as he could, he left base and sped to the circle's usual spot.

Diarwen relaxed and slipped deeper into her trance when she sensed his nearness. Certain that she was physically safe—and that others were safe from her—she turned to her inward battle.

Jazz joined them. Optimus didn't understand what she was doing, but Jazz did. As a spymaster, his duties had included hacking other mecha. He was no Decepticon—he left anyone he hacked in more or less the same state he'd found them, unlike some of the stunts that Soundwave had pulled. But it was still an awful experience to inflict on anyone, and they were understandably upset about it. Enough, in many cases, to give as good as they got if he left them an opening by allowing any weakness to take root in his own coding. Fears and grudges had to be faced and eliminated, no matter how painful it was. Just as Optimus was doing for Diarwen, Prowl had supported and protected him, but hadn't had the specialized skills to help him heal himself. He had trained Mirage, and had begun to teach Bumblebee techniques appropriate for his young age, but that had been late in the war. For vorn, he had been responsible for himself.

Diarwen was not fixing corrupted code, of course, but what she was doing was very similar. She was tracking the memory she had flashed back on to its origin, untangling it from other associations, and experiencing it over and over until she controlled it, rather than the other way around. In its way, that was just as brutal as slicing his own code and rewriting it. Understanding both the necessity and its price, Jazz offered his help. Sometimes she needed an objective point of view, sometimes support that understood her fear and weakness and helped her overcome it without judgment.

Always, Optimus' raw strength was there for her whenever she needed it, but he didn't understand the life of a spy, the ruthless choices they often had to make and the price they paid for that later.

He respected both Diarwen's and Jazz' desire for him to be kept from that understanding. That was not to say that he was innocent of the realities of ordering a black ops agent on a mission. He knew full well that when he sent them out to deal with a situation, the consequences of it were on his servos.

However, to both Jazz and Diarwen, Optimus represented _home,_ and they wanted to keep that part of their existences as far away from their home as the realities of war allowed. So, he wrapped his fields around them like a shield, and let them do what they must.

Diarwen emerged from the trance weary and shaken and feeling every one of her seventeen thousand-plus years. Jazz carefully kept his fields to himself as he lifted her into Optimus' cab. Then he transformed and took Chip and Kaela back to base, leaving them in what privacy was to be had here.

For a long while, Optimus let her cling to him and tremble, wrapped in his fields. When she calmed somewhat, he would ask her how he could be of further assistance, but for now, he knew that all he could do was be there for her. It was enough to rest in the desert sun and keep her safe.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Man," Jazz said eight joor later, "you are th' _worst_ spy ever, except when you're th' best."

Arturo Melendez grinned at him from the pile of dirt into which he had dropped from a second-story window. "Well, thanks, I think."

Jazz extended a servo, and Arturo grasped it, then pulled himself up. "I really didn't expect that guy to pull a gun."

"Don't think he did, either," Jazz said, then smirked. "He sure wasn't expecting me t' walk through him!"

"That what you did? He's gonna have to launder his underwear when he gets home, I think."

"I think so too. Don't you guys usually learn not to do that somewhere along th' line?"

"Yeah, usually pretty young, two or three. But if you get scared enough, it's still a possibility."

"Why is that?" Jazz said, and transformed.

"Well, if we gotta run away from danger, that gets rid of the extra weight." Jazz popped the door, and Arturo climbed in. "It can make you purge your tanks—that's what I heard Sides call it, anyway—for the same reason."

"Geez. Who thought that up?"

"Evolution, man, that's all."

"Oh. Well, about this hand-off, man, you shouldna showed him all the money at once."

Arturo, pretending to drive, sighed. "Yeah, I know that."

It hadn't taken long for Jazz' overtures on the seamy side of the Internet to get a bite. Mearing had authorized enough of a reward to interest those whose values turned more towards greed than loyalty, and the small cog that their contact had provided was enough to hand over the money. The rest of his information was on a thumb drive—one that Jazz had more sense than to read himself. He would use a non-sentient computer as a buffer to determine what was on it before attempting any in-depth analysis of its contents.

"Hey, Jazz, what kind of bot do you think lost this?"

"Dunno, could be anyone. Oh, y'mean the size. Doesn't tell you anything, th' big bots just got more of 'em. Have t' wait for the forensics, an' then they might not be able t' tell us much from one cog."

"Guess it isn't like C.S.I. or anything, huh?"

"Ah wish," Jazz replied. "With humans, you find a hair an' you practically got the whole human. Most of our frames ain't that individualized, unless you can isolate a repair nanite or somethin' like that, but they deactivate fast without a source o' energon."

When they got back to base, Jazz took the thumb drive into his lair and began work on it, while Arturo went to check the maintenance logs in his office.

On break, he logged onto a secure session to check his investment accounts—he was finding out that being rich was a full-time job all its own. But placing his investments where they were likely to grow as well as do the most good was among the most rewarding work he'd ever done in his life.

It didn't take Jazz long to crack the encryption on the thumb drive. It contained only one file, a list of times and dates and locations that had started about two weeks after the Battle of Chicago. After running a search, he concluded that six of those dates and locations corresponded with the times Betony and Jaime had either picked up or dropped off the mysterious trailers that they had Lennox looking into.

When he plotted those locations on a map, something was leaving the area of Chicago and headed toward the vicinity of Vegas.

Which did not jibe with what they knew of Soundwave; their intel on him placed him somewhere east of them but still west of the Mississippi.

It looked like they had happened onto yet another mystery.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen came out of the lake streaming water like a mermaid. Optimus opened his door for her.

"I am dripping wet," she objected.

"You are not wet enough to rust me out," he laughed. "Put your towel down first, if it concerns you. It is cold out here at night. Will would be after me with a LAW if I let his sister-by-choice catch pneumonia."

She put one of her towels down on the seat and tossed her bag over to the passenger side, before climbing in. "Thank you, Optimus."

"A little water is of no concern to me."

"I mean for everything. Bringing me out here."

"You worried me. I have never seen you so shaken."

"I keep seeing that priest's collar. Optimus, the hatred I have for him and those like him is not an energy that I wish to maintain in my life. It is time to learn to forgive."

"We all struggle with that, in the aftermath of war," Optimus replied, his field full of understanding and love.

Diarwen reached forward to lay her hand on the dashboard. Shifting aura patterns told her that Optimus both felt and welcomed her touch; she smiled.

"Did your ritual help?" he asked her.

"It did. I still have much work to do. But at least I no longer carry the negative energy of this incident with me."

"May I...?"

"Most likely. May you what?" Diarwen got a second towel from her bag and dried her hair.

"Scan you. Your energy fields are different."

"I sit here in your cab as naked as the day I was born. Does it _look_ like I mind if you scan me?" she asked, amusement dancing in her gray eyes. "They _should_ be different. Tell me how."

"There was a great deal of dark gray, almost black, in your aura when we came here…it had been there since I first learned to scan. It concerned me because I thought you were injured more severely than you were willing to admit. But that is gone now."

Her fields linked with his, a warm caress. "Being able to tell the difference between physical and psychic wounds is quite difficult when you are sensing only the evidence of disturbance in the patient's aura. In time, you will learn to do so."

His fields wrapped around her and she leaned into his seat with a little sigh.

"Exactly how personal can the Sidhe get with this?" he asked her.

_"Very," _she said. "It is quite possible to make love by this technique alone."

"For my kind, as well."

Her gray eyes flew wide open. "I _knew_ there had to be a way!"

"But I think, perhaps, a better place. We are in too isolated an area for both of us to let our guard down at the same time."

Diarwen considered getting caught _in flagrante delicto_ by some lucky Decepticon. She wasn't sure which would be worse, getting killed or surviving to have the Big Twins find out about it. They would be the talk of the hall for far longer than she cared to contemplate. "Yes, that is a very good point. I do not know when we will have time, safety, and privacy all at once, though."

"I have heard it said that patience is a virtue."

"Do you truly wish for me to be virtuous?" she asked, with one delicately raised brow.

"Not on any long-term basis," he replied in a low growl that sent delicious shivers through her.

As the parched, cracked earth soaks up a warm summer rain, Diarwen let the outer layers of her field mesh with his. Now was not a good time, but they would find or make that time...very soon.

End Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Monique Epps stayed in her seat by sheer force of will. "What do you mean you can't take him! We've been all through this, and your school psychologist agreed that Hopewings is the perfect situation for D'andre!"

Headmistress Denise Chambers bowed her head, accepting Monique's anger as justified. "The most important requirement for an autism-spectrum child, or any child, for that matter, is a safe place to learn. I can provide D'andre with everything else he needs, but I can't give him that. I spoke to Optimus Prime myself, and believe me, it wasn't easy getting to have that phone call! In the best case, the Autobots' response time to the school would be approximately fifteen minutes. Sergeant Epps, you know what can happen in fifteen minutes. We have procedures in place to lock down the school and protect the students from all sorts of emergency situations, but if the Decepticons decided your son would make a good hostage, there would be little that I could do to protect him and whichever one of you was here with him. I can't in good conscience put him in a situation where he would be at risk, and the Prime concurred that there would be a significant risk if it got out that D'andre was here on a regular basis. I'm sorry."

Bobby put his hand over Monique's. "She's right, babe. Especially after what happened to Diarwen-"

Monique nodded, blinking tears. "I don't know what else to do."

Denise said, "You need to get a tutor to come to the base. Now, your local school district will have to pay for it once he reaches school age, but early intervention is critical in these cases. I've written a letter for your commanding officer that states as much, and assuring him that the security issues are the only reason we can't take D'andre. I hope that will help you get your insurance to at least defray the cost of getting someone out there. In the meanwhile, I have some things for you." She set a tote bag on the desk. "I asked one of our early intervention specialists to put this together for you. There are sample lesson plans, activity sheets, and teacher's manuals for play-therapy activities appropriate to D'andre's developmental level. You're already doing some of these things, but this is a more structured format that will help you track his progress and identify where he needs extra help. My contact information, and the specialist's, are in there as well. We'll be happy to answer your questions and help you move forward with his therapy. We've also got a reading list for your CMO."

"Thank you, I'm sure she'll be very pleased to have this list."

"I'm not going to abandon D'andre just because those damned Decepticons are out there somewhere. I have a lot of contacts in education. I'm going to help you find someone, and we'll figure out the funding somehow."

Epps said, "To work on base, they'll need a fairly high security clearance."

"Anyone who works with kids these days has to pass a pretty thorough background check anyway, so that may not be as much of an issue as it otherwise might have been. But what if I looked into people who got their education on the GI bill?"

"That's a good place to start," Epps agreed. "I'm sorry this didn't work out, but thanks for going out of your way to be so much help."

"It's the least I could do. I'm so sorry."

Epps said, "No, you made the right decision. D'andre's safety _always_ comes first with us, too."

"Of course."

They shook hands, then Bobby and Monique left the school. Jolt was waiting to give them a ride back to base.

He asked, "What did they say?"

Bobby explained. He and the journeyman healer looked around the school's neighborhood. It was easy to imagine what devastation could result if the 'Cons were to pull something here, and what the consequences could be for the school full of special-needs children, many with physical handicaps to complicate their learning disabilities. Jolt shuddered under them as he drew his own set of conclusions.

"What do you wish to do now?"

"Take us home, Jolt. We'll look through this material that the headmistress gave us, and work on plan B."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sarah served up fish sticks and macaroni and cheese, Annabelle's favorite dinner and, though he wouldn't admit it, she suspected one of Will's also. She sat down and broke a fish stick in half, and dipped it in the cheese sauce.

Amaranth poked at the macaroni suspiciously, before spearing a single piece and putting it in her mouth. "That tastes good!" she said, surprised.

"See, I toldja," Will said around a mouthful of pasta.

Sarah said, "It probably wouldn't be a good idea to have it every day, but now and then it's a nice treat."

Annabelle proclaimed, "I love love _love_ FISHIES!" And proved it by chomping a big bite off a fish stick.

"What does 'adopted' mean?" Amaranth asked.

"It means you're our forever little girl," Will explained. "We're your new mommy and daddy, and Annabelle is your sister. Bethany is your auntie. Diarwen is too, sort of. You have a family now, and we all love you very much."

"Really? Really and truly? Always and always?"

"Once a Lennox, always a Lennox," he assured her.

Amaranth's eyes were puzzled, and Sarah smiled. "Always and always," she said.

"And I get to call you Mommy and Daddy?"

"If you want to," Sarah told her. "I think we'd like that, but it's your decision. You're part of our family now, and home is wherever we're together. You will always have a home."

After supper, they put on a Disney movie for the kids to watch. Once Amaranth had discovered the world of fiction, she had started collecting stories like other kids collected baseball cards. Sarah figured she would soon need a library card, because the base's small collection of children's literature and videos wouldn't last very long at this rate.

They went in their room, leaving the door open a crack to monitor the little ones. "Will, what did Director Mearing say about Amaranth today?"

"The whole thing is beyond classified. If anyone ever found out where she came from, the uproar would be unbelievable. There are fringe groups out there who might very well try to assassinate her. The surviving S10 people who know about her are in the black hole—no information gets out."

"Will, this stuff always leaks."

"In this case, it may not. At least, not until she's old enough to defend herself against any fringe group moron who decides she doesn't need to live. But any time she goes off base, I want you armed. Even if Hide _is_ driving you. After what happened to Diarwen, I won't take any chances with either one of the girls, or with you."

Sarah nodded. She didn't tell Will that her .38 had been securely in her waistband no matter where she went since she had learned of the attack on Diarwen.

She, too, was taking no chances.

She said, "We can't have her in preschool with the other kids yet. She'd let something slip to one of them, or another parent, because she doesn't understand exactly what needs to be kept quiet."

"She's going to have to be home-schooled until she does understand. But she's gifted enough that no one would question that."

"Will, I'm not a teacher. She needs someone who knows what they're doing. I mean, sure, I'll be glad to home-school her, but I'm not qualified where a kid that gifted is concerned. I need some help."

"We're getting someone. She'll be helping with D'andre and Evanon as well, and maybe even the hatchlings. Ratchet thinks that she might be able to help them, since young Cybertronians react to trauma in a lot of the same ways as our children do. She should be here in a few days, as soon as Simmons gets done vetting her. If her great-grandma got a parking ticket, he's gonna find out about it."

"OK."

"Look, what's more important right now is teaching her how to be a kid. And I don't think we can do that. Annabelle and Johnny Parker will take care of it."

"I admit to a bit of worry about what she might teach them, Will."

"How to shoot a paintball gun, or throw a punch? I don't care if she does. They live in a tough world. I want them able to survive it."

Sarah nodded, having learned those skills herself when she had a child who might need to be protected from trouble Will brought home with him. She would still keep a close eye on the situation. They didn't yet know what Amaranth might need to unlearn.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Lou Ella Boggs jumped off the tailgate of a deuce and a half truck and turned back to accept the duffel bag that a soldier returning from leave, Figueroa, tossed down to her. After four years of medical school and an internship at one of the most prestigious children's hospitals on the East Coast, skills learned in the sands of Iraq came back without effort.

Fig jumped down beside her. "Where are you headed?"

"My orders are to report to Colonel Lennox."

"Let's check in with the OD."

"Sure thing. Hey, aren't there supposed to be a ton of bots around here? Where are they?"

Fig grinned. "Each one of them is a few tons, _Doctora_." He gestured to the parking lot beside Building C, where a pair of Lamborghinis, one silver and one gold, were parked next to a yellow Camaro and a blue and gray Volt. She put two and two together and her eyes widened. Once she figured it out, the blue and red Peterbilt on the other side of the lot was unmistakable.

Fig waited patiently for her to catch her breath. "This way, _Doctora_."

_"Gracias," _she replied, answering in Spanish without thinking about it. Half their conversation on the way from Nellis had been in that language.

_"De nada."_

As they entered the commons, Epps called, "Don't encourage him!"

Fig answered with a one-fingered salute, which only widened Epps' grin.

The huge space was full of noise and motion.

They passed the cafeteria, where Boggs saw her first root-mode Cybertronians. Arcee and Chromia were enjoying their energon while they watched the bustle in the commons.

Something swooped overhead and Boggs ducked, while several people both human and Cybertronian shouted at the two swoopers, "Not inside!" They dropped down to a clear spot and transformed to root mode.

Figueroa said, "They're too big for that now!"

"Those are the sparklings? Director Mearing said there were three."

"That's the brothers, Starskimmer and Stormwing. Their sister, Skysong, is around somewhere. Did Mearing tell you she had a bad accident a few months ago and crippled her wings? She needs a prosthesis to fly."

"I see." And she did. Schooled in the harsh realities of IEDs, neither she nor Fig shied away in horror from a wounded little one caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, or saw a prosthesis as anything other than a useful tool.

"There's the Colonel." He led the way to admin, and they waited for Lennox to finish a conversation up on the catwalk before they climbed the stairs.

Boggs asked, "Colonel Lennox, sir?"

"That's right."

"I'm Dr. Lou Ella Boggs, children's psychiatrist, reporting, sir."

"What branch were you in?"

"Army, sir." She turned over her orders.

"We'll get you settled in. Have you been briefed on your patients?"

"Not really, sir, too much was eyes-only."

"Eyes-only isn't the word. Whatever anyone else has told you about the classification level of this information, keep one thing in mind. If you ever let a single word slip about my daughter, and she's harmed because of it, start running and don't stop because I'll be right behind you."

Boggs managed not to gulp or take a step backward, but it was close. She snapped out, "Sir, yes _sir!"_

She had been told that failure was not an option with these guys. Now, she could see why...

"Fig, find Dr. Boggs a rack and give her the rundown. Doctor, I'll let Doc Parker know you're here and have her let you know when to report for orientation."

They chorused. "Yes, sir."

Quarters were limited, she found herself crowded into a two-bedroom apartment with four other females. But it was air-conditioned and had a kitchen, so she wasn't complaining that the only sleeping space left was the sofa. It was a lot more comfortable than most of the places she'd been in Iraq.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"You did, huh? You're just fulla surprises lately."

Optimus finished his cube of energon and grimaced. Not at the taste; as ever, he found the sunlight-generated energon pleasant. "To myself, as well as everyone else," he said to Ironhide; he had just told his foster-father about his stint at distance healing.

The older mech shrugged. "Can't blow the culprits sky-high, it's the next best thing," his 2iC said. "Though I still wanna pound those two into paste, or anyway I would if they was in their right minds."

"The hospital isn't making any guesses on whether the two will recover."

"Sheesh."

Ironhide, as anyone who had even the briefest of acquaintances with him knew, had zero proclivity for tact. Some of their tiny allies understood a surprising and occasionally inconvenient number of words in that language.

Optimus' foster-father continued, "You want to pound 'em as bad as I do, I know. If somebody'd done that to Lennox, or to Evanon …"

Optimus grimaced again. "I cannot. You cannot. None of us can. Nothing else would be better guaranteed to get us kicked off this planet."

"Yeah, but we can process it with extreme longin', can't we?"

"Yes. The Americans among NEST personnel have a saying: 'It's a free country.' Inside your processor, Hide, it is always a free country. Unfortunately, that is where our longing has to stay."

Ironhide pondered this for quite sufficient time to satisfy Optimus (a few nano-seconds, as the humans reckoned things). Then he said, "Why'd they do it? Do we know why?"

"It has something to do with Diarwen's participation in a battle that was conducted several tens of human generations ago – no one now living remembers it, or was taught by a parent or cohort to remember it. One of the men is a priest of the sort that she removed from that earlier place; they were killing the survivors. Why, I do not know – that is, I do not know why they were killing the survivors. I can be fairly sure I know why Diarwen was doing what she did."

"Same reason you or I did, or Jazz or Mirage, before Cybertron fell."

"Exactly."

"Speakin' of the Cons. Think they might be involved with those two?"

"That would be the only reason I might ask to speak with them. It is hard to see how that could be, but of course it is not impossible."

"How'll you do that?"

"Make a request of the authorities. If they grant it, I will show up in holoform." In holoform, Optimus was nearer seven feet tall than anything else, and a literal couple of ax handles across the shoulders. Closer to three, likely, for this particular interview; he could easily adjust his appearance to suit his needs.

Yes, it would be _extremely_ satisfying to loom over those two. _Extremely_.

"She got any more enemies?"

"Many, she says. I do not doubt her. But most of them are not on this…plane, as she puts it. And some of those are honorable enemies, like this Morithel she speaks of. No, I do not think it is any of them, Hide. More likely, more possible, the Cons, if it is anyone beyond those two…"–Optimus lapsed into English–"knuckleheads."

Ironhide growled, which Optimus had no trouble interpreting as "Kill 'em if I find 'em," and in fact did not disagree with, even if for practical reasons he could not sanction it. He clapped his foster-father on the shoulder. "I have to get back to my office. I've got some work for Jazz and Mirage; I will see you later."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz hadn't had a problem with being asked to find out whether the two miscreants responsible for Diarwen's misfortunes had a link to Cybertronians not on the base and presumed hostile. "Okay, OP, see you when I have somethin'," the saboteur said, and left his superior officer's place of work. Where he went from there (and how he did so) was really anyone's guess.

That left Optimus to wait alone for Mirage, accompanied only by the never-ending paperwork. Mirage, despite having to report from off-base, did not long keep him in suspense.

"You wished to see me, Optimus?"

"I have what is very likely to be a boring assignment for you, Mirage."

Mirage smiled, a thing he did rarely. In Cybertronian, he of course had no Italian accent. "I'm rarely bored, Optimus, by the necessities of my chosen profession. Tell me what you need."

Optimus did. Mirage listened with focus, and then repeated his orders accurately. "Shall I report to you every third joor or so if nothing eventuates?" he asked.

Optimus pondered. "Since you will be in recharge when Ratchet is, simply leave me a private message whenever you have something, or go off-duty. If there is anything to be found, I doubt that it will take you very long to find it."

"Yes, Prime. Thank you."

The door to his office slid shut behind Mirage's lanky frame, and Optimus, picking up his paperwork, frowned at it, then commed Sideswipe.

"Be ready in five minutes to accompany me to the firing range," he sent. "Afterward, we will do some racing."

The comm he received in return was so enthused that Optimus wondered if he should Speak to Sideswipe about decorum. But he realized that this was, after all, Sideswipe, and there were some things he should not waste his energy on.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz had no problem at all accessing the hospital's records of the two perpetrators…if, he hastily added to himself, that's what they were.

They had both rambled about "the silver-eyed woman," which a few hours later allowed him to delete that addendum to his thought processes. The hospital kept its audio recordings of the goings-on in the Emergency Room for seven years, and it was the work of moments for Jazz to access them. The two men's disjointed utterances meant nothing to the hospital personnel, beyond their obvious clinical value, but they were enough, in Jazz' processor, to convict the two outright. He made several copies of the recordings, and placed a tiny electronic glyph on the recordings themselves which both marked his presence and kept the recording from being erased, unless someone went to the trouble of drilling the hard drive.

Even then, the Cybertronians could recover the information. Should the need arise.

Patients' pictures were taken, as well, and Jazz copied those too. Neither man looked at his best in them, but when Diarwen saw them she identified both, and said thoughtfully that they looked as if they had been elf-shot.

Morithel's chosen revenge had landed both in a psychiatric ward, which might, as things went, be considered punishment enough, the saboteur reflected after some observation of the two in that setting. He returned to base through the phone lines.

Yes, Jazz thought, as he made the leap back into his frame, that might just be sufficient.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Cybertronians did not yawn from ennui as humans did, but bored Mirage certainly was. Bored, bored, bored, bored. Bored, bee-ored. He commed Bee. ::Game of strateka?:: The game, known among humans as cyberchess, was a favorite pastime of Mirage's.

Bee's enthusiastic acceptance had the power to make him smile, where little else did.

He was so bored with the complete _lack_ of what he needed from medbay, outside of a conversation between Ratchet and Jolt about a file of the human medications and what they did which Ratchet had upgraded and sent to Jolt, and which Mirage effortlessly intercepted, that half his attention was on the human side of medbay.

The medication administered to Diarwen was on that list, with large-lettered instructions in red that its administration to anyone known to be Sidhe was to be stringently avoided.

Mirage returned his attention to medbay and chess. He was not a cruel mech, but these humans, with their inability to turn off their pain sensors, were a lot more fun to listen to than his fellow Cybertronians.

Treadwell, now: Treadwell was brave enough from his records, but what a wuss when he turned an ankle!

Mirage, who was presently not merely invisible but also "concealed," as he thought of it, so that his fields could not be perceived, attempted in his hiding-place to turn his own leg-to-ped linkage, and reluctantly concluded that there might in fact be something to Treadwell's complaints.

Treadwell himself was saying crabwise to the physiotherapist assigned to him, "Ow, ow, not that far," as the poor man rotated the offending ankle back and forth, massaging it gently between rotations.

He was also, as was his multi-tasking wont, attempting to get stuff done while being done to. Therefore Larina Baker, whose inability to write swiftly enough to take good notes while she had been a private investigator had led her to beg instruction in shorthand from S5's secretary Linda Welch, sat at his bedside, taking dictation.

Being Cybertronian has some advantages over being human which are independent of needing humans around to whom to contrast those advantages. Being alert, for instance: Mirage had simply programmed himself to focus if he heard the words "Diarwen," "elf," or "Sidhe," and was enjoying that game of cyberchess (it has 29 differing pieces and a grid of 961 squares, to a human chess board's 6 and 64) with Bumblebee when the alarm words were spoken.

He sent the glyph which means "Duty calls me, but please do not think I have not enjoyed your company." Cybertronians got a lot of mileage out of a single glyph; that's why there were so many of them.

A swift review of the tapes made in the ER revealed that he had been occupied when Treadwell dismissed the physiotherapist with, "I think I've had about all I can stand for one day," and the therapist's reply of, "I think so too. Ice for 20 minutes before you leave. Once you get to quarters, elevate it, ice it for 20 and heat for ten. Alternate them. Don't skip the cold because it doesn't feel as good. No booze, no salty foods. Got it?" He put the "ice" pack on Treadwell's ankle, weighted it into place, and left.

Treadwell, who eschewed so many of the common pleasures of life that he was practically tee-grand-total, glowered at the man's departing back.

"Now, where was I?" he said to Baker.

"Med bay at Mission City," she replied with a grin.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, right, the Sidhe...'the Sidhe was abducted, and apparently during that abduction human medications were administered to her. They were incompatible with her metabolism, and as a result she spent several days confined to medbay."

"She almost died," Baker said, scribbling away. "She didn't look good last time I saw her. I'm a touch worried about her."

"Oh, not you too," Treadwell said. "Everybody on this base is a member of the Diarwen Club, except for me and Ratchet!"

Baker stopped scribbling, met her boss's eyes, and elevated her eyebrows. "Why not? Joe, the Cybertonians, who can perceive someone's bio-electric fields, trust her with their sparklings. Bobby Epps lets her watch his kids! Adele Hempstead, who knows more about a person from watching them walk across a room than you or I do after a three-hour interrogation, _likes_ her! And Joe, the base gossip is that you caused that, the abduction, somehow. When you get out of here, you're gonna find you get a cold shoulder from a lot of people on this base. A _lot_." She paused.

"You one of them?" he asked.

"You're my boss. I can't, very well."

"Or you would."

"Not your business, really, is it? So long as I do my job and am within the bounds of politeness to you, it's not your business."

They glared at one another for a moment. Then Treadwell sighed. "No, it's not. I think she presents a threat. I'm not sure how, if what she says about herself, that she can't get back to the Sidhe country, is true. But that's what she _would_ say, if she were a threat."

"Why do you believe she's a threat in the first place, Joe?"

"She's not human, but human-seeming."

"The Cybertronians, on the face of it, would present a much greater threat."

"Yeah, but they can't walk around pretending to be one of us."

"No, they can't, but they're so much bigger and stronger that they don't have to. They could squish us with ease. Did you know that that's their derogatory name for us, 'squishies'? Not for that reason, but because we're …"

"Squishy." He knitted his brows. "Where they're…what, crumply?"

Baker smiled. "I suppose so. Joe, what do you have against her? Is it that she's pagan?"

He snorted. "If what she says about herself is true, she's beyond pagan. She's not human, which means she doesn't have a soul."

Baker looked at him until he dropped his eyes. "Joe, I think your faith's leading you astray here. We've no proof whatever that that's true. We do know from religious history that the Catholic priesthood has always been careful to conserve and increase its power. I leave you to sort yourself out over that one."

"She was the White Devil of Magdeburg."

"Tell me about Magdeburg." Baker closed her steno pad as the timer went off, and removed both ice and the weights used to hold it in place from Treadwell's ankle as he filled her in.

He told the whole tale. The Thirty Years' War, conducted to re-establish the stranglehold of the Catholic Church on Europe. The six months of siege laid to a largely Protestant city. The fall of that city, and its plunder; the wholesale murder of any inhabitants too poor to buy their own lives, sometimes achieved only after several consecutive plunders of Catholic and Protestant alike; the use of the River Elbe as disposal for fourteen days' worth of the charred corpses of men, women, children.

Larina listened intently as she put the weights back in their usual place; the "ice" pack she left on the bedside table, with the towel used. She half-turned to Treadwell, who was putting his sock back on. "So what if she was this 'White Devil'? Can you honestly tell me that the priests who performed or condoned the killing of civilians in Magdeburg were acting on God's wishes?"

"I don't know what God's wishes on the matter were." He tied the laces of his shoe.

"No, and neither did they! Diarwen took the only action open to her to save human lives. Say or think whatever you will about it, but that's all she did."

He stood, but the ankle would not support the weight of his convictions. She came around to his lame side, and put her shoulder under his armpit.

She didn't say anything more, knowing Treadwell well enough to understand that more fuel on the fire of disagreement would at this point only lead to flames reaching higher. (And he wasn't a redhead, but he might as well be.) She let him think about what she'd said. She didn't know what he would conclude.

They limped across base toward the temporary quarters S5 occupied, and Cybertronian footprints followed them, one "pluff" into the dust at a time, with no attendant Cybertronian to make them.

Spooky, had anyone been watching.

Once they were inside quarters, Mirage re-manifested himself at an unremarkable distance, and listened right through several walls.

All he heard at first were the sounds of one human person settling another in. Helping him to the couch, finding the remote, pulling the TV tray over, then fetching the laptop, a large glass of chilled water, and Treadwell's current book, which happened to be a 700-page tome on the Great Migrations of the early Dark Ages. Baker also put the crutches Treadwell had been issued within his grasp.

He scowled at them.

"Your choice," she said briefly. "Page me when you need to use the restroom or learn to get there on the crutches."

He transferred the scowl to her, but removed it long enough to say, "Thanks for your help, Larina."

"Welcome. It's not hard to help you, Joe, even when you're being a complete futz about somebody." She gave him a swift smile, and shut the door behind her.

Mirage sighed, and returned both to invisibility and shieldedness, and to his post.

And then, after a long dusty time at higher-than-optimum operating temperature, he performed a faceservo. Why hadn't he thought to scan the video recordings of med bay for the relevant period? He found them and played them, and there, during the entire time that Diarwen had been abducted, until well after her return, in fact, was Ratchet, in medbay, accompanied at times by Jolt, Barricade, the sparklings, and Sideswipe (and briefly by Sunstreaker). The medic was alone for periods of varying length, but never off-camera long enough to have gone to Las Vegas and done … that.

And on that thought, the door to Mirage's hiding place was rudely yanked wide open. "Mirage! I know you're in there. Come out, make yourself visible. I need to know what you're doing."

Mirage did all those things. "I can't tell you, Sideswipe. My orders come from Optimus."

"Oh? Well, you won't mind coming with me so that Optimus can confirm that, then."

Mirage exvented. This orn had been steadily going downhill, and seemed at this point to have reached that part of its descent where it all accelerated directly toward the Pit. "I was checking on Ratchet."

"You were checking on Ratchet." The taller wheeled warrior had him by one armstrut, but let go to turn to face the spy. "Why the Pit did you need to check on Ratchet?"

"Optimus will confirm my orders to do so. We thought he might have had something to do with poisoning the Lady Diarwen."

The silver warrior stared at him for a moment, and then slapped both knees and bent double with laughter. "You thought Ratchet … oh, Primus! Ratchet! Of all mechs!" He sobered up, and stared at Mirage. "I know the old grouch has some kind of problem with her, but come on! He's had problems with all of us, except maybe Prime!"

"Ah, no. He's had problems with all of us."

"And I suppose he had the medical knowledge?"

"Well, no. No one does, not on Sidhe. They're a different species than are humans."

"Like us, and insecticons."

"I'm not sure that that's true, Sideswipe. Ratchet treats them the same as us, when he has to."

"Yeah." The warrior straightened. "Well, let's go see Optimus. See, you can't tell me to keep my mouth shut, but he can."

"I can tell you perfectly well," Mirage said, with just a tinge of bitterness. "The difference is that for some reason, you _listen_ to Optimus."

End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Joe Treadwell had finally given up and put the microwave on the table beside him. That way, he could zap the bag of rice he used for a heating pad without having to limp into the kitchen every forty minutes.

When Larina Baker got back to the apartment, she found the couch empty, and heard rustling noises from the area of the kitchen. They had snagged the apartment which had the entrance to the furnace room for the entire building, a coveted assignment because there was room in there for additional limited storage. It hadn't taken long for five people to create a jumble in there, and Joe was now rummaging through it.

She put her fists on her hips. "Joe, excuse me, but what the dickens are you doing?"

"Looking for my camping cooler. I thought I could put a bunch of frozen vegetables in it, along with some ice, and then I wouldn't have to get up and go into the kitchen every time I need another ice pack."

He hadn't stopped what he was doing, and in his scrabbling inadvertently chucked a plastic grocery bag stuffed with other plastic bags at her. She batted it back onto the pile.

"Sit down," she said. "Put your foot up. Ice to start with, right?"

"Right," he said, but didn't sit down until she reappeared with a bag of peas drooping from one hand and pointed imperiously to the couch.

It didn't take her long to find the cooler. She carried it back, and stocked it with veggies. "I'm going to get you some dry ice, or else a block of water ice," she said, and left him to take care of himself while she did that.

Joe Treadwell had some thinking to do. The frantic attempt to find the cooler had distracted him from it, but with that mission accomplished and himself left in solitude, he had no choice but to look at it.

He'd been wrong.

He'd tried to preserve an earlier state of affairs. He'd tried to preserve the time when he was first attacked by that vampire, all those years ago. But things had changed.

They had changed in the persons of Diarwen, who though not human was not a threat to humans: had proven herself to be on their side. Why she was so … he didn't know. She certainly had no reason to be.

And the same was true of Arag from S-13. Adele Hempstead too, if it came to that.

He sighed, and put Nathan's name on his list.

And the Cybertronians, all of them, as well. Well, maybe not any surviving Decepticons, but all the rest.

These cogitations took him some time. He didn't realize Larina Baker had returned until she knelt beside him to put the ice in the little container in the top of the cooler, and he jumped about a mile.

"You were awfully distracted," she said, closing the cooler. "I spoke to you when you came in, and you didn't so much as blink."

He ran a hand down his face. "I guess I better call a meeting," he said. "We've got to start working in a new way."

"Oh? Want me to set it up?"

"No, I can do that."

"Okay." She gave him a swift smile. "Anything else?"

"No. Thanks, Larina."

"See you," she said, and shut the door behind her.

Yes, they would have to forge a new way of working. The non-human could no longer be killed indiscriminately, and God left to sort them out. Now they would have to give anyone not actively involved in harming people a chance to show themselves as a force for good.

He would say only to himself, not to his team, that he was not adopting the strategy of the priests at Magdeburg any longer.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

S5 received their new marching orders in complete silence. _Complete_ silence. No one moved, or said anything, and there was no change in respiration rates.

Which annoyed Mirage considerably. If he had to be outside, in the blowing grit, invisible and with his fields shielded, he wanted to be picking up something worthwhile.

S5 was gathered in Treadwell's quarters. The ankle was still bothersome, and for that reason Treadwell himself was still on the couch with his foot elevated. The rest of S5 were sprawled about the living room in various attitudes of ease.

Isaac Darlington and Randy Pritchart, their good ol' boys, were seated on the floor opposite one another, playing knucklebones. Alan Winters, who for some time now had suffered from a crush on Larina Winters, was sitting as close to her as decorum permitted on a love seat at ninety degrees to Treadwell's sofa with, he was thanking Whoever for, a large book opened across his lap. Linda Welch, S5's secretary-of-all-work, was present via phone link.

"What changed?" Larina Baker said finally.

Treadwell flushed. "I may have been partially responsible for the attack on Diarwen."

Every single human person then physically present in the room gaped at him. Mirage marked the place in the recording where this event occurred, having forgotten all about the blowing grit.

"Joe," Alan Winters said finally, "you have to explain this to us."

It took Treadwell some time to muster up the words. "I talked to Ratchet about my...problems with Diarwen. He shared with me that Diarwen was once known as the White Devil of Magdeburg; she had confessed as much to him." Briefly, he recapped Magdeburg's sad fall for them. He paused, and then said painfully, "It wasn't the Church's finest moment. Diarwen killed many of those priests and soldiers responsible for the wholesale slaughter. As a result, the higher-ups within the Church gave her the name of the White Devil, and offered her weight in gold as a reward for her capture."

Another long pause ensued. And then Randy Pritchart grinned said, "Well, shoot, that explains it."

Treadwell looked at him, puzzled. "Explains what?"

"Aw, I had to spar against her one time, in the matches, you know. Lennox, he tried to warn me, and Epps backed him up about it, but I didn't think a li'l tiny girl like that … was gonna be any kinda problem, you know? She had me on the ground in about three seconds flat, twice. Third time, it didn't even take her that long. I stayed for the rest of the matches, and she lost to Lennox, but I'm still wonderin' if she let him win."

Isaac Darlington snorted. "I doubt that. You knew that he's a black belt, right? Hell, Lennox took out Blackout singlehanded in the Mission City battle. I talked to a guy in town who saw him do it. You don't just walk up and tell 'em, hey, I wanna be a Ranger. They're both _just that good."_

Alan Winters said, as carefully as was his wont, "Whatever the Sidhe did there, it seems she was inspired by a desire to save human lives. If she killed the most bloodthirsty of Magdeburg's exploiters, so what? It had to be done. They killed more than 25,000 people. And you and I both know," he said, making eye contact with Treadwell, "that had there been some travesty of a trial conducted for those deaths, no penalty would have been exacted. Oh, some of the lower ranks might have died at the stake, but that's all."

"Yes," Baker chimed in, "and she's saved Cybertronian lives as well. They all trust her, so we'd be wise to. And I think we should extend that trust to the human kid who was swapped for a Sidhe, shouldn't we? And what about the ghost and the witch, let alone the Fomor, in Sector 11?"

"All good points," Treadwell said firmly. "Whoever they appoint to take my place–probably you, Isaac–will have to go into this knowing that we don't have the option any longer of assuming that a non-human is harmful–"

There was an outcry of several human voices, the overlapping frequencies of which created a terrible feedback loop. When Mirage could track it again, the femme was saying, "Joe! Why do you think you'll be replaced?"

And Sideswipe chose that moment to flail around in the space occupied by Mirage, and start up his speech again. Mirage grabbed him by one servo and beamed the conversation directly to Optimus' 3iC, and a startled Sideswipe _shut the frag up_, which was what Mirage wanted.

"Because, in the confessional, I told the priest they suspect of having assaulted her of that conversation with Ratchet."

Another long silence. Then Larina Baker, keeping her eyes carefully averted from his, said, "But that was within the confessional, Joe. Aren't they supposed to keep that…confidential?"

"Yes. But," said Joe Treadwell, keeping his own eyes down, "I told him it was okay to share that information with his higher-ups. Lennox already knows about it, since I told him the whole story when they grabbed the Sidhe."

Long silence. Then, Alan Winters said carefully, "So the Catholic Church, for whatever reason, may have sanctioned the attack against Diarwen."

"I have absolutely no proof of that. In fact, Father Grady told me to stay away from her. If he recovers enough to tell us whether he had the Church's sanction..." Treadwell let his voice trail off. "I'm lucky, more than lucky, that she didn't die."

"Yes. But that won't prevent hell breaking loose between the government of this country and the Church," Winters said flatly. "And where will that leave those of us who are Catholics?"

"Where we've always been," Joe Treadwell said with a faint smile. "That hard place between our own conscience, and the Lord's demands of us."

Isaac Darlington stood up, and the rest of them followed. "Joe, you give us a lot to think about," he said. "We all gotta go off and chew on this on our own."

Treadwell gave him a wintry smile. "Yeah. I know."

Mirage and Sideswipe departed as the others left, seen, but unremarked upon.

What the two Cybertronians did not see was Isaac Darlington rounding on the other humans once they were all beyond earshot of their quarters. "Look. We gotta get Joe's back on this. What he done was bad enough, but not that bad, you know? He couldn't know what those two were gonna do about what he told the priest. At this point, we don't even know that the priest told the…whatever a priest's supervisor is. So unless you find yourself under oath, you don't talk about it, understand?"

"No," said Larina Baker, with her trademark brand of spunk, "no, I _don't _understand, Isaac. If there's one thing that Joe Treadwell has taught me, it's that you stand tall and tell the truth. And that's what I'm going to do."

Winters said, "Joe already told them the worst of it, Isaac. We can only make things worse by trying to cover it up now that the story is out."

A silent group split up to go to their various duty stations without further talking to one another.

Mirage and Sideswipe, on the other hand, reported to Optimus, and had quite a lot to say both to him and to each other before they saw him. They, however, used a private comm until they reached his office.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Burnout gathered all his courage in both hands before he approached Optimus Prime one evening at the proving grounds. Diarwen had been sparring against the Sisters—all three of them—and Burnout immediately concluded it would be vorn before he was in their class.

He sent glyphs identifying himself as a remorseful penitent and addressing the Prime as High Priest rather than the less formal identity-string in more general use.

Joe Treadwell would probably have translated it as _"Mea culpa,"_ and been perfectly accurate to do so.

Optimus turned to Burnout and replied only, "I need to check on something up at the worksite. Walk with me?"

"Yes, Prime."

Once Optimus made his excuses to the others and they took the road to the construction site, Optimus asked, "What is it, Burnout?"

After several hesitating fits and starts, Burnout told the Prime his story. His fields were wrapped tightly around himself in contrition and shame.

Optimus gave him all the time he needed, but gradually the young former 'Con realized that the Prime was regarding him with patience and compassion, not disgust.

"Burnout, what else could you have done and survived?"

"I haven't been able to think of anything. But it would have been more honorable to die with my brothers than to join up with the people who slaughtered them."

Optimus replied, "Like you, like me, like every priest, one of the vows they took was to preserve the teachings of Primus. You alone remained to keep that vow, and that is what they would have wanted you to do. Burnout, had you thrown your life away when the Temples fell, everything you have committed to memory past the Third Volume of the Great Record might be lost to us forever. That is as far as my studies went before the war began. I have bits and pieces of the Record from later volumes, but you have the teachings of the Six and the elder clerics which accompanied transmission of the files in their entirety. I cannot see this as anything other than a gift from Primus. In making a way for you to escape alive, in keeping you safe through all the following vorn, Primus preserved our faith."

Gaia's light flared and she sang her joy into their shared fields. Optimus let it flow through him to the young acolyte, glyphs of love and acceptance.

Finally, Burnout was able to mourn his lost cohort, and even his own lost innocence. And, at last, he understood.

It was not Primus who had turned away from him. It had been he, in all his grief and guilt and pain, who had hidden away from Primus in a tight little ball of misery. All that time, the First One had been patiently waiting for him to heal, to open up and come home again. He would have waited until Burnout returned to the Well, had that been necessary. He would have waited for however many lifetimes it had taken.

After a while, Optimus said, "I am glad that you told me this, Burnout, but why now?"

"Oh—Flareup said the sparklings are approaching the age of Acceptance, but that you couldn't hold the ceremony without an assistant. I've never actually done that, but I know the rituals. But, Prime, without the All-Spark, how can the ritual—?"

"Burnout, what I am about to tell you is privileged to the Priesthood at this moment. In time, all our people will know, but for now, it must be kept secret."

Burnout allowed protocols long locked away to come to the fore, preparing to archive the memory about to be created behind nearly unbreakable firewalls, and initiating protocols that would completely erase it if those defenses were in danger of being breached.

Optimus released the Matrix. Burnout stared at the ancient artifact briefly—he was in the presence of a legend of their people, lost to them since the Original Primes had failed to return to Cybertron before his activation. But he had been in the presence of the All-Spark itself while he had been an acolyte in the Temple. He of all mecha would never mistake that energy for anything else.

"The Matrix...contains the energy of the All-Spark? But—how—it was destroyed!"

Optimus called Gaia back to her dock and put a gentle servo on Burnout's shoulder. "Its physical form was destroyed, but the energy of the All-Spark is that of creation itself. No mortal can destroy that. It kept itself safe and hidden until the time came to remake itself. The Matrix was a sparked being, who entered the Well with Prima. The All-Spark called a new spark to that frame. Her name is Gaia. When she matures, she will have the wisdom to direct the energy of the All-Spark and protect it from the kind of blasphemous misuse that Megatron intended. One of your duties as a priest will be to keep this new volume of the Record. When Gaia is older, she will once again call our people from the Well to new life, and we will all rejoice and give thanks. But for now, we must keep her safe."

"What would you have me do?"

"I think it would be good for our people to have a place to worship, and a priest to serve them. Let Primus guide you to do that for them."

"Yes, Prime."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen and Betony sat in the shade waiting for Jaime to return. "I will miss you," Diarwen said.

"The offer to come home to Maryland is always open, you know."

"I know. And...I will. But..."

"Diarwen, are you in love?"

Diarwen looked around, and lowered her voice. "I—ach. Yes. I am."

"Who is the lucky fellow? Or lady?"

"Mech," she said.

"That's why you've been mentioning a certain person every other sentence. Does he return your feelings?"

"Yes."

"Congratulations." Betony held her tongue for a full thirty seconds. "But how the hell do the two of you-"

Diarwen flushed. "Not your business, and more to the point, we are still figuring that out. We can both feel and control energy fields. Both our peoples find that erotic. I think we will find a way to muddle through."

"Love will find a way," Betony smiled. "I'm sorry, hon, I'm being an ass to tease you about it. It can't be easy to be in love with someone and have to reinvent the whole process."

"I have faith that we have all the ingenuity required to do so," Diarwen grinned.

"Have fun figuring it out," Betony told her.

"I intend to."

They looked at each other for a moment, then giggled like teenagers. And to their own horror, couldn't stop, which set them off again...

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Friday before Halloween was very busy, as all the sectors except Sector 8, who had already relocated to California to deal with the Westmoreland situation, finished up all their last minute business and packed up to go home. The scientists and engineers of S9 were ganged up in Wheeljack's lab with Que, Chip and Mikaela, planning how to go about some of the joint projects they had planned. Most centered around finding some way to introduce energon technology to Earth to break the ruinous dependence of human civilization on fossil fuels.

Sam Witwicky and Dr. Hunt of S11 were talking about making time to continue Sam's training once they returned to DC. Whatever had happened in California, Sam had been locked up with Hunt for six or eight hours a day ever since he got back. And Optimus Prime had been very interested in the results of those discussions.

Joe Treadwell wondered if Hunt might be counseling the younger man for post-traumatic stress after he'd shot Helix. Granted, Sam had killed before, but taking a life in a straight-up fight wasn't the same thing as shooting someone in the back. Not that Treadwell blamed him; he would have done the same thing if someone had been about to shoot one of his team.

Arag had one arm casually threaded through the straps of all four of S13's duffel bags as they stood around waiting for the bus, and chatting with their friends. The Fomor-kin gave Treadwell a long, level look.

Joe nodded, and held the retired Marine's gaze for a moment. Then he threw his bags into the luggage compartment under the bus, and went looking for Diarwen.

He found her near the playground, with Chromia. The blue cycleformer's plating raised in an obvious challenge, one step away from powering up her guns. She growled, "I thought you were leaving, you slagger."

"Yes, ma'am. I am. But I need to talk to Lady Diarwen first. _Just..._talk."

Diarwen nodded to Chromia. "It is all right, my friend. I will permit it. I also have a few things to say to Mr. Treadwell."

Joe had never been more aware of the blades at her belt, and those were just the weapons that he knew about.

Chromia said, "Very well, but you mark me well—I'll be watching you." She transformed and moved away to let them talk, but true to her word, the skirmisher kept an eye on him.

Treadwell kept his hands in plain view. "Lady Diarwen, I'm almost certain I was the reason Father Grady targeted you. Saying I'm sorry I almost got you killed isn't much, but it's all I got. I understand if you want to file a complaint with Mearing, I gave you plenty of reason."

"I should say you did. Why, if you had an issue with me, did you go to an outsider rather than making a complaint to someone in command here? If you have cause to believe me to be a threat, do you think that Director Mearing would not give you fair hearing, or would fail to investigate? Why did you feel obliged to run directly to those who murdered so many of my people, and drove the rest from this plane? Modern society has some very ugly words for the crimes they perpetrated in those days—ethnic cleansing, genocide! Were you trying to see all that started again? Perhaps against the Cybertronians this time?"

"No! I never wanted that. But you're not the first of your people I've had to deal with, and then there are the changelings—do you have any idea what they go through, what their families go through, when they come back?"

She had been facing him all along, but now she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "How dare you justify the depredations of the Inquisition against my people by the actions of the Unseelie? How would you like it if your country were held responsible for the actions of other human nations because you share a species with their people? Should I have a blade at your throat because your blood is the same as that of those who beat and raped and killed thousands of my kind? They went to war with Medb's people, and used that as an excuse to massacre whole villages of peaceful Seelie Fae! The Seelie never took changelings. And even if the Unseelie did, even if your God sent His emissaries to order your church to do it, tell me how that could ever justify the dishonor of putting Unseelie _children_ to the sword and the flames?"

"I'm not trying to justify that. I don't think our God did tell them to do it. Evil people on both sides of every conflict ever fought have tried to use divine will as an excuse for whatever society would have condemned in peacetime. I'll have to see some evidence before I'll believe the Church still allows those things in this day and age."

"So then why did they rename the Inquisition a century ago, instead of disbanding it?"

"Look how long it took them to admit Galileo was right! But that doesn't mean they didn't _know_ he was, a long time ago. There's a lot of things they know. And I needed to know if you are a security threat!"

"If you thought me so lacking honor as to betray the country I fought to help found, then you should have challenged me—in the company of others, if you feared me so much. Instead you set your dogs on me from hiding."

"Yeah, you're right. I did. And that's what I'm sorry for. If I had it to do over knowing what I know now, I'd never have gone to Father Grady in the first place. But we don't get do-overs. I don't know how I could make it up to you, but I know I owe you a big one."

"Believe me, I will keep that in mind. If you ever do anything like this again, you had better make sure you find smarter lackeys the next time. If they fail, I will deal with you myself.

This foolishness will _not_ spread beyond the two of us to involve anyone I care about."

Joe Treadwell bowed his head to the unhuman before him. "Fair enough. There won't be a next time."

Stiffly, she said, "I accept your apology. I would still have it be a while before I see you again."

"Yes, ma'am," Joe Treadwell said, vanquished, and left her under Chromia's scathing gaze.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The base rang with the shouts of zombies, goblins, princesses and various pint-sized superheroes, as well as a ladybug, a biplane and a steampunk bat. Not to be outdone, the adults had festooned their living quarters with jack-o'-lanterns, strings of orange lights, tombstones, spiderwebs and, in one case, a cloud of rubber bats. The littles raced from door to door, gathering up loot.

Many of the bots had leapt on the opportunity to illustrate spooky stories from Cybertron. Most of them had been toned down for the benefit of the kids, but everyone was still laughing about the earth-shattering screech that Que had let out when he opened the storeroom to find a holographic spark-eater hovering in there, courtesy of Jazz and Mirage. Optimus had heard the scream and rushed to the rescue, skewering the poor hologram before anyone could explain.

Fortunately, all the "monster" had needed was a reset to be ready for its next victim, which turned out to be Chip.

Like all spark-eaters, it had survived being shot as well as skewered.

There weren't only pint-sized zombies. There were three very large ones. A liberal application of gray paint and small purple LEDs in strategic places had turned the Wreckers into the Cybertronian equivalent, empties who had been desperately hungry enough to drink dark energon. Such creatures were very familiar to Wreckers, who had occasionally run across them before the war while reclaiming materials from the forgotten depths of Cybertron. They were handing out chocolate candies and energon goodies molded in the form of nuts and bolts—the same sort of thing as the cauliflower "brains" and boiled egg "eyeballs" that humans served up on Halloween.

Optimus thought that Diarwen made a very attractive mummy. Her "wrappings" were gauze, decorated with a gold-colored plastic mask and a wide collar of beads.

Barricade had allowed the sparklings to dress him up. Had there been anything in the world that Optimus never expected to live long enough to see, one of the most dangerous Decepticons on the planet in disguise as Barney Fife's police car was it.

Sarah and Annabelle were pirate wenches, complete with plastic cutlasses and plush parrots. Annabelle carried a small plastic treasure chest which already had a month's worth of candy in it.

They had not been able to explain to Amaranth the point of costumes, but she had gone along with the craziness in a sort of bemused go-with-the-flow attitude that Sarah thought belonged to a much older person. Today, she was Mulan, her favorite of the Disney movies she had seen.

Epps, dressed as a football, was responsible for his older kids. Monique had stayed home with D'andre, knowing that the confusion of Halloween would be too much for him. She sat on the floor with her son as he played with his blocks, patiently waiting for him to give her some insight into the world of D'andre.

He had taken to sorting his brown blocks in a certain order. Without looking her in the eye, he handed her the red blocks.

Monique had no idea what she was supposed to do with them, but looking at the others, she finally arranged them from darkest to lightest.

D'andre looked at them critically for all of a minute. Then he swapped two of them and made a satisfied sound.

On closer observation, Monique decided that she had made a mistake—she had put those two out of order. They were almost identical, but one was slightly darker than the other.

She wished she understood why the ascending color scale was so important to D'andre. Perhaps it was enough simply to know that.

At the other end of the street, there was a crowd gathering around the central Quonset hut. In order to make room for the party, the ultralights had been taken out of the commons and parked outside.

Amaranth wandered over to Skysong's ultralight and crawled inside, looking up and wondering what it must be like to soar.

A few moments later, Skysong joined her, carefully fitting her ladybug wings into the ultralight.

Amaranth asked, "What's it like to fly?"

Skysong said, "Everything bad stays on the ground."

"I wish..."

The little femme reached out and hardlined to the control module. A moment later, the ultralight rolled down the runway, faster and faster until they left the ground beneath them.

Amaranth was entranced. Below them, she could see the lights of the base, and around it, the dark sand stretching out to the surrounding rock formations. They circled Buzzard's Rock, then Skimmer and Stormy caught up.

They had ten minutes of complete freedom before Sarah realized that Amaranth was missing, and so was the ultralight. Barricade ordered the sparklings, "Get down here _right now!"_

They swooped in for a formation landing. Amaranth and Skysong climbed out of the ultralight and stood with their heads down. They knew the adults were upset with them, but they didn't understand why.

Lennox told Sarah, "Don't. Don't crowd them, or yell. Skysong was out when we laid down the law to Annabelle and Skimmer, remember?"

"Oh my God...that's right. They didn't know about the no-flying-above-my-head rule."

Lennox said, "Everyone go on inside, get back to the party and let me and 'Cade figure this out. Annabelle, boys, go with Sarah now. It's going to be all right."

He and Barricade reassured their daughters and told that from now on they weren't allowed to fly alone, because it could be dangerous, but that Dr. Parker could take Amaranth up with her when they all flew together. One day, which would come before they knew it (and long before their parents were ready) Skysong would be big enough to fly with Amaranth anywhere that they wanted to go.

They came inside to find Annabelle and the mechlings climbing all over Ironhide as if he were a huge jungle gym, while Sarah and Chromia watched, taking pictures.

Then the cook brought out a humongous jack-o'-lantern shaped cake, surrounded by oilcake bats, and the hordes descended.

Will saw Sarah examining her hair in Ironhide's side mirror. "What's wrong?"

"I'm looking for gray hairs."

"You'll just go platinum," he smiled.

Ironhide rumbled, "Quit worryin'. The bitlets are fine."

"I know," Sarah said. She left the "this time" unvoiced, and, to a satisfaction she would not acknowledge even to herself, found a gray hair.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The last of the little kids were ushered home as Jazz signaled the beginning of the grown-up party by turning down the lights and playing some dance-club music. Once the kids were gone, the punch was duly spiked and the party started hopping; he began to enjoy himself immensely.

Around eleven, Diarwen and Optimus quietly left. Flareup took a turn soon after that. Some of the soldiers wanted to hear some of the Cybertronian dance music she liked to play. They thought it sounded kind of like a fusion of house and trance, and they really liked dancing to the complicated beats she wove.

Jazz enjoyed DJ-ing other people's music, but he didn't consider himself more than an amateur. Sometimes he would improvise a bass line following Flareup's rhythm and lead, but mostly he would rather dance or just listen if someone else was providing the music. The floor was already crowded, so he got some energon and stood around talking to Sides and Sunny for a few minutes.

One of the security alerts pinged, and he narrowed it down to the storage area between medbay and Que's lab. He thought it was probably a false alarm, since he had not seen anyone go in there. Still, its contents were of some urgency, and this alert couldn't be ignored.

Jazz set his empty cube on the nearest table and went to check it out. Que's office was locked, so no one had gotten in there that way. He went on into medbay, which was empty because there were currently no patients on the bot side.

Two steps from the storeroom door, he was suddenly nearly doubled over by a sharp pain in his chest where his spark would have been. And a bright blue-white light spilled around the door.

He slammed a servo onto the control pad and nearly fell inside when the door slid open.

One of the new protoforms that Ratchet and Que had been building was moving, tangled in the tarp which protected it from the desert's ever-present dust. Jazz lurched that way, grabbing at the tarp and pulling it away.

The protoforms were base forms, mostly undifferentiated visually from one another, but this one was slightly different, a little shorter and slimmer than the other two. And as its gray color gave way to black and gold, Jazz let out a wordless cry, unheard over the loud music from the commons.

"Jazz—Jazz—"

"Ah'm here, Prowler, Ah'm right here."

The cycleformer's servos scrabbled at his chest plates. "Oh—Primus—help me."

The pain in his own chest clawed at him again, and suddenly Jazz understood what was happening, what they needed to do. It felt like a black hole in there, trying to draw something into itself, and there was only one thing it could be. Fumbling like two younglings experimenting for the first time, they opened their plating. Not one but two sparks blazed in Prowl's chamber. Their fields meshed as their frames locked.

They ended up on their knees, both of them tangled up in the tarpaulin, but neither of them cared or even noticed as their repaired bond filled with a desperate tumult of _I missed you_ and _Stay_ and _I love you. _No observer could have said for certain where one mech ended and the other began.

It could have been a breem or a vorn before they knew that there was a world outside the circle of their embrace.

Jazz came back to himself to realize he hadn't been dreaming. Prowl was in his arms, out cold but very much alive. And, once he assured himself of that, he checked his own condition.

He had his spark again. He was alive, by what miracle he didn't know, but he was alive.

Somehow he found the strength to close the plating over both their sparks before he flopped on his back beside his bondmate and opened a channel to Ratchet. "Come to the med-sci storeroom, right now, Ratch. Got a coupla patients for ya. An'—don't glitch when ya come through the door."

While he waited for Ratchet to get there, he drew his bondmate's helm to his shoulder. Jazz, rarely at a loss for words, found only, "Thank You, Primus," in his vocalizer.

End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus watched Diarwen as she lit her candles and incense, as she called the quarters and invited the Goddess and the God to join them, as she sang a song of mourning for the God's annual sacrifice, for the dying of the old year, for the Goddess' winter retreat. They honored their dead; on a black altar cloth names in silver Sidhe runes and names and ranks in English lettering flowed around Cybertronian identity glyphs.

As they went into meditation, they did not notice that the candles flared and two of those glyphs disappeared.

Diarwen had warned him that the veil between the worlds was thin tonight, and that spirits crossed over. Optimus hadn't expected them to be drawn into the desert world where he met with the Original Primes, but he wasn't surprised when it happened.

Gaia appeared between them in her bot form, chirping softly, frightened.

"What is it, Sparkling?"

"We are close to the Well. There are sparks here. They want me to give them frames. I can't, Optimus, I'm not big enough. But they don't want to wait." She wound an insubstantial servo into his own, and he reached down to cradle her. She put her helm to his shoulder and said, "Scared."

"I will not allow any of them to make demands of you, or to harm you in any way. Dock with me."

Gaia did so, and Optimus could feel her shivering as he sheltered her beside his spark. He wrapped her up in his fields, hoping to keep the chill of this littoral of the Well away.

Diarwen said, "The little one is right. We are not alone here."

"Will the circle not protect us?"

"It will. None who mean us harm may enter."

"All the same, stay close. 'Harm' may have many different definitions," he cautioned. "Why do you think we have been brought here?"

"In the past, it has always been because the Ancestors had something to say to me," she replied.

Optimus nodded; his forays here had been to answer the summons of the Original Primes. But this was not the area—if such a word could be used to describe something so outside the usual rules of space and time—that he had seen before. They were very near the Well of All Sparks. "Gaia is frightened here, and she says that sparks waiting for new frames are calling to her. I do not think we should remain here long, circle or no."

"Aye," Diarwen said. "But I do feel that there is a reason we were drawn here. We owe it to ourselves to find out what it is, barring traumatizing Gaia of course."

"What is the extent of the circle? Will we know if we are about to cross it—or if we are venturing too near the Well?"

"I have been taught to visualize the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead as the Veil, and that on this night, it is thin enough to pass in either direction. I do not know if those rules apply to the Well. As for the circle itself—I cast it, I will feel its energy."

"Then, let us see what awaits us." Optimus held out his servo to Diarwen and raised her to his shoulder. She found her usual secure spot next to his neck plating.

Optimus' directional sensors were useless here. This was not a planet with a magnetic field. They were in a clear circle of sand at the center of a ring of standing stones. "Diarwen, look around us, do you see what this is?"

"A stone circle. The inner circle, where the altar stone should be."

"This is not of Cybertron. I think this is of your people—or at least of Celtic humans."

"Yes. But they did not build to this scale. The highest trilithons at Stonehenge are but twenty-five feet tall."

"A joint creation of our memories, then?"

"No, it is older than we, and continuous with the place of your ancestors which we have visited upon occasion. It is a mystery."

A Cybertronian figure moved in the mist, slowly coming into view.

Optimus started—he knew that field pattern as well as he knew his own. "Ariel?"

Diarwen's attention was riveted on the much smaller figure walking at her side. She whispered, _"Orthelion."_

Optimus lowered Diarwen to the sand, then raised his optics to the patiently waiting femme.

Ariel was exactly as he remembered her, the pink and white armor of a student medic, optics a particular shade of sapphire that he had never seen anywhere else. Sorrow and regret overcame him, sorrow that what should have been a lifelong bonding had never had the chance to blossom, regret that nothing could ever grow between them now—his spark belonged to another.

Those optics were gentle with understanding and kindness.

::Why now?:: He asked quietly.

::For so many vorn, all I could do was watch over you. What could I have said to make our separation easier while you still mourned me? What could I have done, beyond reopen old wounds? You had enough to to do without having to deal with that. I am your past, Optimus, Diarwen is your future. I come to you now to give you my blessing, and to wish you every happiness.::

::We would have been good together, Ariel.::

::I know.::

::Have you regrets? Is there anything I can do to help you move on?::

::I regret that time has moved on without me. I am still the femme who loved you at university, in a time and place that no longer exists. You have matured into a warrior, a leader, and the finest mech I know. When the time comes, when Gaia is old enough, I would like to return as a new sparkling. In that new life, I would like you to be my parent. Is that too much to ask of you?::

::Not at all. We are different people now. Some would say I am old enough to be your parent now, if you have not aged at all in this time. I am deeply honored that you find me worthy. I think that Diarwen will be as well. If she consents, then I would welcome you.::

::I look forward to it.::

::Ariel, I regret that I failed to defend you.::

::You could not have done so. My death was intentional. If not that joor, then another opportunity would have presented itself eventually.::

::Why?::

::Sentinel could not have you bonded. No one else was ever supposed to have a greater influence over you than he.::

::Sentinel. I never suspected.::

::I did not know myself until the Well refused him.::

::He was sent to the Pit?::

::No. He was a good mech once. There is good in him still, albeit suffocated by the madness which he allowed to consume him. His—the humans have a word for it, his karma—came due. He is where he needs to be now, stripped of all memory of his past lives and reborn into a life which will help him to become something better than he was, if he chooses to put forth the effort. He has been granted a family who will love him unconditionally, and he is free of the caste system and all the injustice it once perpetrated. Perhaps in time, he will achieve the potential he fell short of in this last life. I could not have forgiven him while he lived, but I forgive the new creature that he is now. I release him in compassion. I release you in hope and joy. Nothing binds me to my old life any longer. Until the time comes for me to begin my new one with you and Diarwen, I am content and at peace.::

::Ariel, how shall I express my gratitude for the gift that you have given me this evening?::

::There is no need. It is a gift to both of us. It is time for me to begin again. What you and I missed in this life, perhaps we will find again in some future one. The important thing is that while relationships change, love remains throughout all of time, and will still remain when all are one.::

Optimus smiled down at her. ::We will most likely spoil you awfully, you know.::

::I think that is a chance worth taking,:: she said, and the smile he remembered so vividly crossed her faceplates yet again. ::Alas that I won't remember.::

::You will. We all do. Maybe not the details, but, enough.::

A short distance away, Diarwen and Orthelion joined hands for the first time in centuries. She felt – she thought of it now as her fields merging with his – and simply basked, for a timeless time, in that energy. When it was right to do so she picked her head up off his shoulder and said, "I have missed you."

"And I you." His hands had moved of their own accord to her forearms when they broke their embrace; she returned the gesture. Neither wanted to break their contact. "Just to hear your voice again is wonderful. Are you well? Are you happy?"

"For the most part, yes. I am recovering from this last misadventure. Do you know of Tir nan Og? Our queen?"

"She is well. Without trade from Earth, things have been difficult at times, but they are at peace. Your sacrifice allowed that. Your name will be remembered in song there forever."

"I did less than you, and all our brothers and sisters who fell that day. Yours are the names that they should remember."

"We watch over those still living, and we feast in the halls of Arianrhod. We have our reward. Dying for queen and country? That is no great thing. Living alone for all these years? That was a great thing indeed. I am glad that you are no longer alone."

"I did not think you would give me up."

He smiled, that raffish, heartbreaking smile that had first captivated her millennia before. "I have not, and will not. But I would be a lout indeed not to share you with your soulmate. Before ever we were lovers, you were, and are, and will always remain my dearest friend. Tell him this, though—I will always watch over you, and should he ever hurt you, I will give him cause to regret it. There will come a time for me to be reborn. It will not be until after a gate reopens between Tir nan Og and Eire. But after that happens, after I have time to grow again to manhood, we will meet again and have the opportunity to rekindle that friendship. But do not mourn me any longer. In my next life, I hope to find my own soulmate."

"I will hold the hope of that reunion dear to my heart, and pray that your search will be successful."

"Blessings exchanged, then?"

"I suppose it must be so," Diarwen said and smiled at the thought, a thing she would not have thought possible before this Circle. "How long have you and Ariel known one another?"

"Not long; we met soon after you and Optimus did. We had our watch over you in common. I have met others of their kind, as well, but she was most often here of all those looking after him. She is a bright, innocent spirit, as are many who die young; she has remained as she was. She has become something of a younger sister to me, I suppose."

"So tell me, has she shared stories of her youth with Optimus?" Diarwen asked.

Orthelion laughed. "Ach! I will not get into the middle of that by supplying you with blackmail material. Or perhaps I should make an even slate of it by sharing tales of our youth as well?"

"I do not think that will be necessary," Diarwen said demurely, and was rewarded by the sparkle she had missed for many centuries in those remarkable blue eyes.

"I shall miss your laughter until we meet again."

"And I, yours."

"Diarwen, there is one thing more. Forgive Morithel. There will come a time that she will need your help. Give it freely. She has a destiny to fulfill, to the benefit of both our peoples. Remember this."

"I will remember. I am not sure that I need to forgive Morithel in any case. In truth, we have been at odds many times over the years, but always because duty to our queens set us against each other. It was never anything personal. She has always been a noble foe, and she has my respect."

"I am glad to hear it. The Sidhe are not so many that we can afford continued animosity between the Courts." He glanced behind him, then smiled down at her one last time. "Good journey, Diarwen ni Gilthanel."

"And to you as well, Orthelion Silversword. Carry with you my regards to the rest of our company."

Diarwen watched him fade into the mist between the stones, smiling at old memories.

Optimus' voice shook her from reverie. "Diarwen, we should go. Others are gathering, others not so benevolent as the spirits we have met tonight."

"Yes, of course. Let us go."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen and Optimus quietly took down the altar. After the last words of ritual had been spoken, they were both deep in contemplation of their encounter in the Otherworld.

Suddenly, the comms went wild. Optimus startled violently enough that his plating rattled loudly, and he demanded in Cybertronian, "Say again?"

Diarwen loosened her sword in its sheath as she waited for him to converse with someone back at base. After a brief delay, he transformed and held open his door for her. She scrambled into his cab and asked, "What has happened, Optimus? Is there an attack?"

"No, nothing like that! Ratchet tells me that Prowl has returned to us, inhabiting a protoform that Ratchet and Que made for him—apparently, they suspected that something such as this might happen, although I believe they thought Prowl would also return as a ghost. But somehow he brought back Jazz' spark with his own—and now they are both among the living again."

"Brigit's forge! This may be the only night of the year when such a thing could happen," Diarwen marveled.

When they returned to the hangars a few moments later, there was mass chaos in the commons. Ratchet had set Ironhide on guard at the medbay entrance, allowing no one in except Jolt, Wheeljack, Mikaela and Chip. The mixed crowd of mecha and humans were standing around in small groups, many still in their costumes, and everyone was yelling at once. Epps and Hardcore Eddie, who had come as Mario and Luigi, were hanging around the main doors with the Wreckers.

Optimus carefully set Diarwen on the concrete as he transformed. "Report!"

Leadfoot shook the passable imitation of a cygar that he had cobbled together and replied laconically, "Aye, Prowl's back. Any more than that, ye'll have t'be askin' the Hatchet." He then took a long drag of vaporized energon from his cygar.

Designed to prevent those who had the dubious habit of sucking down vaporized fuel from causing explosions in the process, cygars rarely made their users popular with others who did not indulge. Just enough of the substance combusted to create a malodorous cloud of smoke; therefore, they had made themselves at home outside.

Optimus shut off his intakes until he was out of range. Diarwen made a face and quickly followed him; that was worse than the miasma which had hovered over the average Grateful Dead concert back in the day.

Optimus pinged Ratchet. As he had expected, it was a few moments before the healer was free to answer. ::Ratchet, Prime,:: he replied.

::What is happening? Is it true?::

::I believe so. You can come in but leave the rest of that mob out there. Prowl's already glitched once, I don't need him doing it again over someone's damn-fool costume.::

::Glitched? You reinstalled his battle computer?::

::Had to, if I was going to give him his backups! The alternative would be to leave him amnesiac, and missing the Pit-be-damned thing. It's the lesser of two evils.::

::I understand.:: Prime turned to Diarwen. "I am going to see for myself what has happened."

His shifting fields said more, and Diarwen nodded understanding, remaining outside while he entered the medbay. At a time when confusion was abundant, it would be well not to create more by antagonizing Ratchet in his den.

She joined Chromia and her sisters. "What happened?"

The three of them quickly synched stories over their private channel, then Chromia said, "No one knows for sure. Jazz handed off the DJ console to Flareup, then he went into the medbay, and a few moments later, the fields went crazy, and all of a sudden both of them were just _there_ in the clan bond again. And then, Jazz called Ratchet. Ironhide says they both look all right. Prowl's confused, you know how Jazz said it was when he came back. And Prowl's never dealt well with being confused."

Arcee said, "The sooner Ratchet can confirm that he's stable enough to go home with Jazz, the better it will be for him. The fields look like they always do after he has one of his glitches, and the best thing for him has always been to leave them alone and let Jazz help him ground himself. But Ratchet knows that. He'll let him go as soon as it's safe."

Chromia conferred with Ironhide, then the big mech ordered everyone to clear out of the commons. There was some grumbling, because those who had mourned the Autobot's strategist following his sacrifice to end Trypticon now understandably wanted to see him, touch him, reassure themselves that he was once again safe among them. But his well-being was paramount, so they all went to their apartments if they lived in this building, or cleared out if they did not. There would be plenty of time in the coming days to get reacquainted.

Similarly, Ratchet sent Chip and Mikaela away. That was perhaps an overabundance of caution, but he didn't want to introduce humans to Prowl until he was sure the strategist was over a particularly nasty crash.

Meanwhile, Optimus tapped at the door to the storeroom and waited until Jazz sent an "approach" glyph before going inside. Ratchet had been reluctant to move them until he had a chance to perform an extensive examination. The ninja started to struggle to his peds; neither Optimus nor Jazz were about to let him do any such thing.

"Be still, Prowler, until Ratch says it's all right," Jazz told his bondmate.

The glyphs of joy and gratitude that Optimus was sending convinced Prowl that any sort of formality was unnecessary. Optimus asked, "I do not want you to risk another crash, but without chancing that, can you tell me anything about how this happened?"

"Trying to reconcile the dissonance between my perception of the Well of All Sparks, and this reality, caused the crash. I think in time, with meditation, I may be able to sort things out to some extent, but right now I am not capable of providing such a report."

Jazz advised, "You can't describe it, there ain't no words. It just _is. _Hang onto the memory, that's all."

Optimus agreed, "It is impossible to describe the details here. I do not expect you to do that."

"Yes, sir," Prowl said. "Has Ratchet said anything?"

"I believe he has some test results back. Shall I ask him to come in?"

"Please. I'm as curious as you are about how this miracle occurred. Maybe his observations can tell us more than my memories at this point."

Prime pinged Ratchet, and a moment later he came in. First, he asked Prowl's permission to establish a hardline connection, then assured him, "You've recovered from the crash. There are no permanent effects. All you need now is a good defrag."

Jazz asked, "What's our physical condition, Doc?"

"Textbook post-reformat," Ratchet said. "Jazz, you're fully recovered. Prowl, you need a few more joor to settle into your new frame, since you had to online your new processors as well as well as integrate your spark with your new frame."

"How did you know to have a frame ready for me?"

Ratchet ex-vented. "We didn't _know,_ Prowl. We _believed. _This frame is generic enough that most mecha could have used it, if that had been necessary. But Que and I did design it for you. We had faith that Primus would not be cruel enough to kick one of a bonded pair out of the Well permanently without making a way. So, we tried to do our part. I'm sorry we couldn't replicate all your mods here. You'll find that our resources are limited."

"The most important ones still seem to be there. As for the rest? It's better not to rely on weapons that can be taken away or lost. They were nice to have, but I don't need them," the ninja assured him.

"It's good to have you home, Prowl."

"It's good to be here."

"Take your time to get your feet under you. Jazz' quarters are close. You can go back there as soon as you can walk safely. I'll check on you again next joor."

"Thank you."

Optimus left with Ratchet. In the room outside, Wheeljack was tinkering with Skysong's youngling frame, bringing it just that much nearer perfection, and Prime stopped for a moment to look. It was a tiny work of art, designed to allow the little Seeker as much freedom of choice as possible as she grew, as well as later, when the time came for her to select the modifications for her adult frame. But for now, it was smaller than the frames of most younglings, so that she would not feel badly out of place with the rest of her trine until it became time for them to upgrade as well.

"It is beautiful, Wheeljack. I am sure that Skysong will be pleased."

The inventor nodded. "Thank you, Prime."

Working on a sparkling or youngling frame had, at one time, been the aspiration of every engineer. Then, with the caste system, a time had come when frames were mass-produced for the lower classes. Work like this had been done only for the privileged offspring of the towers, who had preferred style over substance. Wheeljack was thankful that his craftmaster had insisted that he learn the old ways. Now, he had built a quality top of the line frame that would serve its owner well through good times and bad, without sacrificing beauty and grace.

"Ratchet, how long do you think it will be before she is ready to upgrade?"

"A few weeks. For the flight-control systems in her processor to develop, she still needs actual direct sensor input that she can't get controlling her ultralight or your flight gear. Her intermediate flight frame will provide her with that. We're going to start her on that tomorrow or the next day."

"Is there an aerial alt mode available for a frame this small? Perhaps one of the Air Force's UAVs?"

Wheeljack said, "If it's absolutely necessary for her to scan an Earth standard vehicle mode, then yes, that's going to be her best bet. But I have a few transscans of alt modes designed for minibots that would be better for her. Messenger flyers were often only a little larger than she is now. It would be feasible to downsize the alt mode that she chooses for her now, then upgrade it as she grows."

Diarwen found a sock on the doorknob when she went home. She grinned, recognizing Chip's aura as well as Mikaela's, and went out the back. It was by now about three o'clock in the morning, and only the sentries were out there. Once they identified her, they paid little more attention to her.

The desert night had grown chill. Diarwen went a little away from the quonset huts and climbed a boulder, sitting cross-legged on its flat top. It had been a night full of mysteries and miracles, the kind of Samhain found in the old bards' tales.

The young moon cast a dim silver light. Diarwen thanked the Goddess for her brief visit with Orthelion, for its metamorphosis of their relationship rather than an ending. She found that she could now remember the ages of good times that they had shared without feeling she was somehow betraying Optimus to hold those memories precious. And she prayed that Orthelion's search for the one who was to him what Optimus was to her would be swift and successful.

Optimus had not yet told her how his conversation with his carmine-armored femme had gone, but she had seen in his aura that he was at peace with it. She was thankful it was so.

And, tears came to her eyes as she thought about Jazz and Prowl's reunion. One day, she would write that ballad, but tonight she simply gave thanks.

The light came on in Optimus' quarters. Smiling, she went there. Unable to glamour her presence, and unwilling to subject either of them to the base's gossip mill any more than necessary, she called upon her many years of espionage experience to slip past the sentries and climb to the window, its sill some twenty feet above the ground. She tapped on the glass.

Optimus spun around ready for a fight: no one was supposed to be there and there were a lot of unsavory reasons why someone would be. But as soon as he recognized her, his battlemask retracted, and he laughed as he let her in. "What are you doing?"

"Well, it has occurred to me that we have been waiting for a conjunction of safety, time and privacy. We have that now. We are safe here, no one expects us anywhere until morning, and Jazz and Prowl have set off enough fireworks in the ambient aura that we are likely to go unnoticed until that settles, unless we are incredibly obvious about it."

He smiled and held out his hand to help her down from the windowsill, then closed the shutter, sending the glyph to lock his door. "It would have been rather embarrassing if you had been caught sneaking through my window in the middle of the night," he teased.

"True. Could you live with the results if I had been?"

"I could never be ashamed of you, Diarwen ni Gilthanel."

"Nor I, you," she replied. "Breath of my body, fire of my spirit, blood of my heart, strength of my right hand, all of this you are to me, _Ard Righ na_ Cybertron."

Words were insufficient. Optimus reached out to her with his fields, and felt them mesh perfectly, as none other ever had. For a long while, there was nothing except their presence in one another's fields, finding the deep red embers of passion and bringing them to full blaze. Dimly, Diarwen heard Optimus' cooling fans roar to life, the sound nearly lost in the pounding of her heartbeat.

Optimus realized that she was perilously near the edge of his desk, and got control of himself. "Beloved, you are going to fall. I am not sure how best to do this."

"I am no blushing virgin, _acushla_, but where your folk are concerned, I am...do _not _stop doing that, oh Brigit!...you will have to show me what to do."

"Likewise. There is a wealth of information available where humans are concerned, but I doubt its accuracy, and I do not know how much of that applies to your folk."

She gasped, squirming in spite of herself. "Most of the _accurate _information will be close enough. Sidhe and humans are enough like one another to bear children together. One day I will ask you precisely where you found that information, but at this moment, I do not care!"

His laughter warmed her soul to its core. "I shall have to try to distract you from that well enough that you forget."

"Aye, the best of luck with that." She played his fields like the strings of her harp, and he found himself unable to stop his engine revving. "I do not have a convenient source of similar information. Tell me what you would be doing if you took one of your own people to your berth."

"I will happily show you, but you must take care. Even though I have protocols to prevent damage to a smaller lover, there are still issues which those protocols do not take into account."

"Yes, we must take care while we learn one another. I wish to learn you well."

"And I, you," he replied. He put his servo around her and waited a beat, then when she made no effort to move away, he picked her up and carried her gently to the berth with him. Lying flat on his back, he placed her carefully over his spark—then froze, making certain that Gaia was deep in recharge.

"What is it, love?"

"Gaia. I wished to be certain that she is fully in recharge. Otherwise we would have some very delicate explanations to make."

"Ah, little ones," she smiled.

"Where were we?"

"You were about to show me how Cybertronians make love...other than something like _this_, I think."

So near his spark, the interplay of their fields was intoxicating, so much so that his servo shook as he turned it to show her a panel on the inside of his wrist. It snicked open, revealing several data ports, as well as junctions for various sorts of tubing and conduits. "We have these all over our bodies, some more intimate than others. Understand, there is not one act that we refer to as _interfacing,_ there are many things that we do. And it isn't always sexual. Some joinings are equivalent to no more than a handshake. The same physical act allows transfer of files, or sharing energon or charging a battery for someone who is low. So if you should see two bots doing something like that, do not jump to the conclusion that they are having an affair. It could be something entirely innocent—and, if they are in public, probably is. In fact, you might see risque or suggestive behavior, and now have the knowledge to recognize it for what it is, but we have privacy taboos similar to those of Earth. We have a glyph for 'get a room!' Seeker society was more open, as they practiced the custom of mating flights, but even they preferred to be at a high enough altitude to provide some privacy."

She examined the array. "May I touch?"

"I would very much encourage it," he replied.

"You have sensor clusters here?"

"Yes, a great number of them, in order to facilitate accurate—_ahh!" _He broke off as she traced her fingers over his connections, insinuating her fields deep into each individual sensor cluster as she came to it. His digits twitched, then she heard locking pins snap into place. It was an abrupt reminder of his constant awareness how tiny she was in comparison to him.

"Optimus, I know where your digits are and where they will be if you make a fist. I am safe around you, not only because I trust you with my life, but because I am not going to take any foolish risks," she reassured him.

"It was not a conscious decision. I have engaged the those protocols that I mentioned. Size differential means little to us. They have developed in ways that do not reduce my enjoyment."

"If I were a small minibot, what could I do that would be different from mating with a bot similar in size to you?"

"We enjoy touch as much as any other race does, but the most sensitive of our haptic sensors are protected under our armor, in places that only a much smaller individual can reach without removing it—and the war left us with few safe opportunities to be unarmored. Even now, I would not dare be caught in protoform mode by a sneak attack." His paneling unlocked and flared outward, transformation seams opening. "Be aware that you will have access to energon lines, which are capable of causing burns to an organic. Especially as hot as you have me running right now."

Diarwen took the warning seriously. She was unafraid of an injury similar to touching a hot pot but she was most unwilling to break the mood to deal with it. She was having entirely too much fun. And, a moment later, as her small hands began to caress the protometal beneath his plating, so was he.

Optimus never truly regretted before that he did not have the modifications necessary to touch her in equally pleasurable ways. As a clerk, he had spent much more time hardlined to a console manipulating data than doing fine work with his servos. And then as Prime, he had been a warrior from the beginning. Some bots did have small servos within their digits—medics and scientists, of course, had a wide array of them. Craftsmen such as Ironhide, who was a consummate weapon-smith, had whatever was necessary for the tools of their trade. Even Sunstreaker had asked for a few, to be able to hold his smaller paintbrushes. Optimus never thought he would need such mods. Now, he wished he had them.

As their field play became more insistent, he put that aside to think about later, and concentrated on Diarwen's pleasure. She could study his frame to her heart's content—he learned her energy fields just as well.

Dawn light through the vents in the shutter found them sated, happy, and still wrapped up in one another's fields. Diarwen had slept off and on, curled up on his chest plates like a contented cat. Optimus had recharged for a little while, but had spent most what had been left of the night simply watching over her, thankful beyond words simply to still have her in his life, much less in his berth.

"Ach," she cursed sleepily. "It looks like I get to do the walk of shame."

"The what?"

She laughed, stretched, and sat up. "I have spent most of my time on college campuses for the last century or so. The walk of shame is when one leaves one's lover's place and stumbles home in the early morning, rumpled and thoroughly debauched, in the same clothes one was wearing the night before. Everyone knows what one got up to!"

He laughed. "Go through into my office. Stick your head out the door and ask if anyone has seen me lately. They will tell you that I have not opened the office yet. They may wonder how you got in there, but knowing you and spec ops, they will assume you appeared there in whatever mysterious manner that spec ops people do those things. Then go about your business as usual."

Diarwen flushed red as she jumped to the ground and searched for her shoes. "What do you have planned for today?"

"Roadbuster wants me to take a look up at the site, and after that, the usual. Yourself?"

"Wander around and try to keep busy, I suppose. I am to see Dr. Parker third joor, and I hope that she will allow me back on light duty."

"After last night, I am sure that she will do so."

"As soon as Prowl is settled, I want to talk to Jazz about what happened to me. If I've learned one thing from this whole sorry episode, it is that I need to lay my ghosts to rest."

"I understand. Please do not do it violently."

"I have no intention of committing murder or mayhem," she assured him. "I only want...closure, I suppose, is the word that they are using these days."

"We all need to put the past aside, so that we can concentrate on the future," he smiled. "I should like to have Roller stay with you, if that would be all right. I am still concerned for your safety."

"I have no objection whatsoever to Roller's presence," she smiled.

End Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen carefully bottled her potion as soon as it cooled sufficiently, then sealed and pocketed the vial.

Optimus was waiting in his office. "Diarwen, are you sure you wish to do this?"

"I am sure that I must."

"I understand. There is nowhere I can park unnoticed in range of my holoform. It would be best if you did not take your NEST cell phone. I wished to offer this to you under other circumstances, but needs must." He unsubspaced a small box and carefully placed it in her hand.

There was no immediately obvious way to open it, but she had always enjoyed puzzles. On the top was a glyph—no, three glyphs intertwined. She recognized Optimus' identity glyph, and the two which made her name in Cybertronian. She touched that, and the small box opened to reveal a small pendant of dark blue metal, resting on a silver chain. She looked at it, then her eyes flashed to Optimus' face. "_Acushla_, this is-"

"Custom among my people," he assured her. "Or, at least, as nearly as I can manage. When a relationship forms between two of us, when we both desire for that relationship to be permanent, we exchange a small token of our protometal, that our loved one may always be with us. It need not be between lovers. Friends and family often do the same."

"But what have I to give you in return?"

"You already have. Beloved, you have filled an emptiness in my spark that I have long accepted would always be there. You will always be a part of me."

Her hands were shaking as she put the chain around her neck. The pendant settled over her heart, and she could sense the aura within it. "Optimus, I cannot give you this, but there is something I can do. You have offered to stand as my champion, should it be necessary, and I am both humbled and honored. Among my people, when a warrior fights on a lady's behalf, she gives him a token for the hilt of his blade—something of her magic that offers what protection she may. I would do that for you. Help me raise energy to do this."

He cleared a space on the table, then pulled his energon sword from his subspace. Diarwen said, "Let me see your grip. I need to choose a spot that will not interfere with it, nor be subject to the heat when you ignite the blade."

"I think the pommel, then."

"Yes, that will work." She drew her dagger and laid it between them, then her athame—he had learned that there were separate uses for each. She cast a circle and called the quarters without need for ritual. He raised energy for her, and after their night together it was simplicity itself to mesh their energy fields and offer the mana for her use. She put her athame down and took up the dagger, touched its tip to the sword's pommel then pricked her finger. Three drops of blood fell, but before they could fall to the table the magic caught them and changed them. Light flashed, creating settings for three scarlet crystals.

When he took up the weapon, the crystals glowed softly from within, and he felt the protective ward that they contained.

She thanked and released the quarters, then opened the circle.

"These wards are more powerful than the energy I raised would indicate."

"She approves of you," Diarwen answered with a smile. "Brigit, I mean." She indicated the pendant. "You will know where this is located?"

"Yes, and I will have some awareness of your energy field. Not anything specific, and the effect drops off over distance. But if anything goes very badly awry, I would probably know."

"I do not look to need it, but such a thing is always good to have. One never knows."

"Diarwen, I am not yet completely convinced that their church had nothing to do with this. I have only the bishop's word to Ironhide for that. We cannot be certain that these two acted alone, even if they recover sufficiently to say they did."

"Indeed, they did not. The trouble originated here, because in my pride I frightened two of our own, and that fear spread like ripples on a pond. Actions have consequences. What I sent out, returned to me threefold. While it is possible that the bishop, and perhaps even those above him, intended _something,_ I doubt this fiasco was it. And I suspect that between you and Charlotte, they have been well warned to leave me alone from now on. As long as I return the favor, I doubt I will hear more from them."

"For their sakes, I hope so. There had better not be any sort of repeat of this. I may not be able to act directly, but I have been playing politics for far longer than any of them have been around. It is not necessary to resort to violence to settle such issues." He subspaced his sword and transformed, opening his door for Diarwen. Once she had settled herself and her belongings, he transmitted the glyph that opened his door and rolled out into the commons.

Prowl was in admin with Sides, learning the ropes of this new planet from the young 3iC. Ironhide planned to hand Prowl's 2iC duties back to him as soon as possible, but wanted to let him readjust before mentioning it to him. Optimus informed them, "I will be leaving the base for a while. Call me on a private channel if there is a serious emergency; you two and Ironhide can deal with anything else."

"Understood, sir."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Tranquility General Hospital was a quiet place, set back from the street and surrounded by desert landscaping of large weathered rocks and a beautiful cactus garden. Both the staff and those patients who could move around outdoors found it a good place to stroll around in the mornings and evenings. It also meant that, other than vehicles dropping off or picking up patients, there was nowhere near the building to park. Optimus parked in the far corner of the lot, where humans were unlikely to notice his colors.

Diarwen slipped out into the shadows and disappeared with the alacrity he associated with Jazz. She avoided the main entrance and its well-traveled paths, instead climbing up a support post and crossing a canopy. A short jump got her up onto a second-story roof. Careful to tread lightly on the roof gravel lest she attract attention from the many lighted third-story windows, she crossed to the wall and searched until she located a drain pipe. She gave it a few tugs, cautiously at first then more vigorously, to be sure it wouldn't come loose when she was half-way up.

The seventh floor, where the psychiatric ward was located, had bars on the windows, but it also had a metal door opening onto a small landing of some sort. What this odd lookout post was for, Diarwen had no idea. Apparently it had made sense to the architect.

She extracted a set of lockpicks and quickly gained entrance to a jumbled-up storage room. Unused furniture and stacks of linens sealed in plastic made a cats' cradle of potential noise-makers. She wormed her way through, more than once stopping to steady a teetering tower. After a moment, she figured it out—these things, unneeded for psychiatric rooms, could be used to restore this level to regular patient rooms, in case some disaster or epidemic required their use. At last she reached the door, and once again needed her lockpicks. She suppressed a sneeze—the ever-present desert dust made itself at home even within the clean confines of a hospital.

She opened the door into a quiet corner of the ward, and the chaos of conflicting energies nearly gave her vertigo. It wasn't as bad as the madhouses she recalled from a century ago. They really were trying to help the patients. Most of them were at least living quietly in worlds of their own. But here and there, locked doors confined people who were consumed by fear or malice, dangerous to themselves and everyone around them. Even heavily medicated, the energies they sent out were a beacon to things that fed off fear and anger. Those things fled as soon as they sensed her, hissing and gibbering on the edge of her consciousness, but they would be back as soon as she left.

Diarwen knew from experience that it did no good to try to convince hospital administrators of the benefits of warding a place like this. The best they could hope for was that someone on staff would quietly do it. It appeared there simply weren't enough witches to go around.

She waited until the nurses started the two A.M. bed check and darted into the nurses' station to find out what rooms the miscreants were in. They shared a double on the other side of the floor.

She had a close call when the charge nurse came bustling into the nurses' station to oh-so-politely call some doctor and hand him his ass (in the way that only an experienced nurse can) for failing to prescribe enough medication to get a patient through the night. The poor lady was now screaming and disturbing all the other patients on her end of the hallway. Diarwen ducked into a supply closet and waited until the reaming-out had been completed to the nurse's satisfaction.

Armed with the room number, Diarwen shadowed the meds cart down the hallway, hiding in a shower until the nurse distributing the meds finished administering them to all the patients in the hallway. Then she darted across the hall into her assailants' room.

Father Grady was asleep, until Tony saw her and started screaming, then he woke up and joined the chorus. Very practiced at giving potions to uncooperative patients, she pinched Tony's nose and expertly poured half the potion into his mouth with the other hand so that he'd swallow instead of choke on it, then quickly closed his mouth for him before he could spit it out. Hoping that the nurses would be occupied with the other screaming patient, she quickly repeated the process with the priest. Old and small he may have been, but he had a perfectly good set of teeth, which he proved by biting her wrist. She twisted free and stuck her bleeding arm under the faucet while she waited for the antidote to work.

As she no longer had the ability to charm the potion, it took a while for the magic inherent in the herbs to work. But gradually the venom lost its potency, restoring the two men to rationality.

They woke from a seemingly endless nightmare to see the woman they'd kidnapped staring down at them.

"Well, well," she said. "What a brilliant pair of miscreants I have collected."

"What do you want?"

"From you lot? Absolutely nothing."

"You cured us. Why, after what we did to you?" asked the bewildered priest.

"Because I understand what you did. You heard one side of a very old story about a rutting awful war that ended generations ago for you. You wanted to know if I was a threat in this day and age. Obviously I could be if I wanted to, but why? There's no one left alive who bears any responsibility for the atrocities of that time. I will not carry hatred for dead men with me any longer. Let there be an end to it. I forgive you."

With that, she turned and left the room.

And the priest and the mafioso were left to feel the incoming tide of madness from the rooms around theirs swamp them once more.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen returned to Optimus. He wrapped her in his seatbelt. "Did it work?"

"Yes, they were lucid when I left."

"Do you think it made a difference?"

"It did for me."

"Then we need nothing more here. It is time to go home."

"Aye. Home."

"Diarwen, our old homes are lost to us. We have each other, we have here, we have now. Together, we will make that enough."

She smiled, and rested her head against his door all the way back to base.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Mirage waited on a farm road off I-80, not far from North Platte, Nebraska. It was early morning, and the temperature hovered just above freezing—uncomfortable, but with the sun climbing higher in the sky, requiring no extra energon to keep himself out of stasis. He waited for the human vehicle to get there.

It wasn't a long wait. Jaime pulled up and asked uncertainly, "Mirage?"

After a scan to be sure they were, as it appeared, the only ones around for miles, he transformed and walked over to the truck. "_Si_. This is one of the mysterious sealed trailers?"

"Sure is," Jaime replied. "They had us pick it up outside Sioux Falls last night—that's a long detour."

Mirage checked out the trailer. "Step back, I can smell a faint scent of energon."

"Wait, is anything moving in there? I don't want to get stuck paying for that trailer if I don't have to!" Jaime said.

"No, there is no movement, and there are no living mecha inside. I sense no spark energy."

Jaime took a pair of bolt cutters and cut the padlock off the doors. Mirage opened them, standing to one side.

Inside were several coffin-sized crates and a strong smell of old energon. Mirage took out one of the crates and pried it open.

Inside was a human-sized protoform.

Jaime stepped back. "What the hell is that?"

Mirage replied, "That is what we all would like to know."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

In Chicago, there was a knock at Frank Hastings' office door. "Come in."

Lowell Zain shut the door behind him. "Frank, I've got some bad news. The last shipment deviated from course and stopped for fifteen minutes."

"Sure the driver didn't stop for a burger?"

"No, sir, the GPS shows them on some farm road in the middle of nowhere."

"Damn. Well, with all the energon detectors, there was always a chance they'd be made. At least it was the last shipment. Abandon it. We'll make do with what we have."

"Yes, sir."

(to be continued in A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Five)


End file.
